


There Is Only Forward

by allyss



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Battle of Five Armies - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Child Death, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Implied Bard the Bowman/Thranduil, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Minor Sigrid/OC, Sexual Content, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2018-12-22 14:03:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 33,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11968932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allyss/pseuds/allyss
Summary: “I let myself imagine this city restored. We would take what had been destroyed and rebuild it. It would wash away this sadness. The streets would once again be filled with life. Full of hope... But that was just a dream.”When the battle was won, it was not for them.AU – In the aftermath of the Battle of the Five Armies, Sigrid must cope with the deaths of her brother and sister, while struggling to be the person her people need her to be, and Fíli searches for a way to escape being his Uncle’s heir.





	1. prologue

**November, TA 2941**

 

It wasn’t their fight, but they died anyway.

It wasn’t their greed that drove the dragon to them in the first place. They weren’t the ones who woke the dragon from its slumber, but they were the ones who suffered. Those who survived dragon fire only lived long enough to die at the end of an Orc’s sword.

And when the battle was won, it was not for them.

The desolated earth was awash with blood, but they found a place – the one place where the battle and the dragon didn’t touch, where the sun still shone and the grass grew. The singers wouldn’t sing of this part – they would sing of the Dragonslayer, who saved his people and became a king. They wouldn’t sing of how he sobbed, and how his hands, blackened from the dirt, never lifted to wipe away his tears.

No parent should have to bury their child; no one should know how it felt to dig their graves, but dig he did.

A part of him knew that it was selfish, that his children should be with their mother in both body and spirit. But he could not bring himself to burn them, to give them to the fire and cast their ashes into the breeze. He couldn’t bear the thought of the wind carrying them far away from him, and never knowing where they came to rest. He could only hope his wife, wherever she was, was with them, and understood.

Sigrid knelt beside him, still and silent. A bunch of wild flowers sat on her lap, held together by a little piece of string. They were surrounded by them; little flowers, small and delicate, and each one a different colour, but those she had chosen, those were special. Those, she gave to her brother and sister.

She had always been strong, just like her mother. If not for her, he might’ve stayed there forever.

They didn’t have fancy shrouds to bury them in, but somehow, he thought that this might be better. They were wrapped in linen and their coats, Bain in his and Tilda in Sigrid’s. Tilda had always liked that coat, she’d looked forward to the day when Sigrid outgrew it and gave it to her… He couldn’t stop himself from reaching out, taking a deep, shuddering breath before his trembling hands stroke her hair. She was pale and cold, but she looked peaceful. She might’ve been sleeping, if not for the smell, the smell of death… that, he couldn’t ignore.

His brave, beautiful children…

He took her first, his heart heavy with sorrow. She was so light, he barely felt her in his arms. It helped to remember that she was in a better place, with the mother she never had a chance to meet. He lowered her gently into the ground, grateful, for the first time, that his wife hadn’t lived long enough to see these days. He consoled himself with the knowledge that they have her and each other.

Bain was heavier in his arms. He stumbled, his vision blurring with tears when he laid his son down in the earth. The dragon had been right after all; only, it wasn’t fire he failed to save him from. What was it the monster had said? _You have nothing left but your death –_ no, no, _no._ He shook his head to dispel the thought. He had his daughter. He had Sigrid. And he must remain strong, for her sake.

When the time came, he was trembling because it was so hard letting go. He pressed one last kiss to Bain’s forehead and Tilda’s cheek, and moved aside to let Sigrid whisper her goodbyes. His mind supplied him with the words he couldn’t bring himself to utter aloud. He liked to think that they could hear him, that they knew.

His hands, bloodied from blisters and blackened with dirt, ached as he reached again for the shovel.

When it was over, Sigrid set the bunch of wildflowers down on the dirt. They had no marker, no plaque or emblem. They had only a handful of stones that they piled together so that they would be able to find their way back to this place, back to them.

“Da…” Sigrid murmured, and he blinked in surprise. They were the first words she’d spoken to him in days. He lifted his head to meet her gaze, bleary eyes taking in her outstretched hand. He nodded in understanding; she didn’t need to say the words. He took her hand and she leaned into his side as they walked away, tears making tracks in the dirt on her cheeks.

He took her back to the healing tents, not quite hearing the fussy Elven healer who scolded him for letting her out of bed. His eyes followed her as she was helped across the room and back into bed. The armchair that had been his bed for the last few days was still where he left it. He considered it for a moment, tempted to stay, but remembered his promise to Percy that he would consider taking Lord Girion’s home as his own.

It was a long walk back to Dale but he didn’t recall any of it. One moment he was burying his children, and the next, he was sat in the crumbling ruin that was once his ancestor’s home, pretending not to hear the silence ringing in his ears. The numbness inside him frightened him; he didn’t know how long he sat there, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, before a hand suddenly descended on his shoulder.

There weren’t many he’d expect to see in his great-great grandfather’s kitchen, but Thranduil the Elvenking, was perhaps the last. He looked almost like a figment of his imagination, standing there with his autumn crown and long black mourning robes. The Elven king didn’t say anything, he just removed his hand from Bard’s shoulder and set a pitcher of wine down in front of him. He might’ve smiled, if he had it in him. The wine was red, dark red, and he stared at it for a moment before he seized it. Thranduil handed him a glass and all he could manage was a grunt in response. He poured it too quickly and it sloshed over his hands, but he barely noticed.

He threw it back, in the off chance that it would help.

“The Dwarves have requested a meeting.” Thranduil told him and Bard lifted his head, eyebrows lifting in disbelief. Before he could speak – before he could say something he’d later regret, the Elvenking held up his hand. “I told them to wait.”

“Thank you.” He muttered, pouring himself more wine.

 _Dwarves,_ he thought bitterly to himself, his expression turning dark. What more could the Dwarves want with him? They brought with them only ruin and death. And his people, who had been brought so low, had nothing. Even if they received the gold they were promised, what then? They could not eat gold. Gold would not keep them warm and give them shelter once winter came. Gold would not bring his children back –

“No,” he sighed wearily. “If the Dwarves wish to meet, so be it.”

The Elvenking cocked a brow, but didn’t argue. He stared at the wine for a moment longer, then threw back the rest before he stood. He stumbled, not from the drink, but from sitting for so long, and frowned when Thranduil steadied him with a gentle hand at his elbow.

There would come a day, he promised himself, one day where he could allow himself to be less than strong. But not today. It could not be today. He had to be strong for his people, because as much as he was loath to admit it, they could not hope to endure without the aid of the Dwarves.

They walked in silence, for which he was immensely grateful for. He didn’t have it in him to make small talk.

His people bowed their heads as his passed, something that set his teeth on edge. He wasn’t sure whether it was out of sympathy or respect, though he disliked either thought. For their sakes, he did his best not to let his disdain show.

The desolate land between Dale and Erebor was dotted with healing tents, and it was there that Thranduil lead him, not into the mountain itself. He hadn’t thought he would return there so soon, not until that evening, when he would collapse in the dusty old armchair at the foot of Sigrid’s bed and hope for a few hours of sleep.

The smell of death was overwhelming, it made his hands tremble. If Thranduil noticed, he made no mention of it. He led him to the largest tent, surrounded by Dwarves and Elves alike.

He entered the tent first, uncertain what he would find within.

There were three beds within the tent, two pushed together and the other one its own. The King’s nephews, who looked barely older than Sigrid, lay together, their limbs tangled in a way which reminded him of his own children. He looked away, his gaze shifting to the other bed, wherein lay Thorin Oakenshield.

The Halfling sat at his bedside, holding his hand.

“Good. You are both here.” The Dwarf king proclaimed. “I’d sit up, but I fear Master Óin might have a thing or two to say about it.”

He and the Halfling shared a small smile, a private joke shared between the two.

“I wish to make amends,” Thorin continued gravely. “I gave you my word, and I failed to keep it.”

Bard could not help but scoff. “I thought the mind of a king mind did not change with the rising and setting of a few suns.”

He could practically hear Thranduil’s smirk. Thorin had the decency, at least, to look ashamed.

“In my arrogance, I was blind.” Thorin sighed, his gaze momentarily shifting to the Halfling. The movement was subtle, but he saw the Dwarf’s thumb lightly brush across the Hobbit’s knuckles. “I failed to see that I was weak to the same sickness that robbed me of my grandfather, a sickness which led to me act shamefully. I wish to atone for those actions. I will give you everything your people were promised –”

“How can I trust that you’ll keep your word?” He interjected, wearily running a hand down his face. “Do not forget that you gave it to me and my people once before, and proved that the word of Thorin Oakenshield is easily broken.”

“I would offer you this, as a token of my good will.” Thorin replied, and a moment later, two Dwarves – Balin and Glóin, if his memory served him correctly – stepped through the opening of the tent, holding in their hands small, ornate boxes. Glóin stood before him and opened the lid of the box, revealing large green gems on a thick silver chain. “This was the necklace of Girion. It seems only right for you to have it.”

Thranduil cleared his throat and moved forward to stand beside him.

“This is all well and good, but you know why it is that I am here. You have something of mine, something I wish to reclaim.”

Thorin’s expression darkened. “Yes, I am aware.”

“ _Enough.”_ Bilbo commanded, before either Dwarf or Elf could say anymore. “You will get your gems, in exchange for peace.”

Balin stepped forward then, looking pointedly at the box in his hands. When Thranduil reached out, his long fingers seemed to tremble before they turned the latch and pushed open the lid. The gems inside were quite unlike anything he’d seen before, they shone like starlight – but no matter how beautiful, they weren’t worth dying for. He wondered, unable to understand, how much blood had been spilt. And for what? Bard knew his own purpose, his people needed what was promised to them so that they wouldn’t starve, so that they might rebuild their lives – but Thranduil? What made those gems so precious, that he was willing to go to war over them?

“Fulfil your promise, and we will have peace.” He said, too tired to hear any more talk of gold and gems. He reached inside his coat pocket, taking out the Arkenstone. “A sign of my own good will. I have no quarrel with you, not as long as you honour your terms.”

“Then it is settled.” Thranduil said with an air of finality.

“We are to have peace then?” Bilbo asked, exchanging a small smile with the Dwarf king.

“Aye.” He said, and set the jewel down at the foot of the Dwarf’s bed, glad to be rid of it. “But there is something else we need to discuss. The dead. We must decide whether they are to be buried or burned. They cannot be left any longer.”

“Should you wish to bury your dead, that is your choice. But if you require pyres, they are being built as we speak.” Balin responded ruefully. “With so many lost… it would take too long to return them to stone. This is the way it must be.”

“Our dead are usually burned; their ashes are given to the wind and the lake, but some… some cannot bare to do so…” He told them, and his gaze fell to his hands – still blackened, still bloody. What despair he felt in his heart must have showed on his face, because for a moment he was met with only pity, hidden poorly in their averted gazes. “I will speak with them, and hear what they wish to do.”

He sighed. “If that is all, I must return to my daughter.”

“Laddy, don’t be forgetting this.” Glóin said, and thrust the box into his hands. The Dwarf bowed his head and in response, he nodded as respectfully as he could. He left the tent swiftly, having no desire to linger. Once, Sigrid would have scolded him for his poor manners. But he supposed she wouldn’t care so much anymore...

He didn’t hear the Elvenking following him, not until he fell into step beside him.

“Your daughter was injured during the battle?” He asked, though it didn’t sound much like a question.

“Yes.” He sighed.

“Take me to her.” Thranduil said, more a demand than a request. And being too weary to argue, he led on in silence.

“She cannot leave this tent again! _Please,_ I beg of you _._ The child must rest!” The Elven healer exclaimed at the sight of him, hurriedly placing herself between him and Sigrid – as if… as if…  “She must remain here until – oh, my lord, forgive me. I did not see you.”

Thranduil’s glower was cold and unforgiving. “You may go.”

It was almost enough to make him smile, how quickly the Elf fled the tent.

But instead he sighed at the sight of Sigrid, curled up in a ball at the very edge of the bed. He had never thought he’d see her in mourning clothes again. Not since her mother’s death has she worn so much black. She’d been so young when she lost her mother – too young to understand – and she still was, too young to have lost so much. He set aside the Dwarven box and crossed the room. He knelt by her side, gently brushing a loose lock of hair off of her forehead. Her head wound was healing better than expected; there might not even be a scar left behind of the long bloody gash that almost killed her too.

“Sigrid,” he murmured, hating to wake her. She mumbled a little in her sleep, like she did when she was little, and only opened her eyes when he gave her shoulder a weak squeeze. He could see the exact moment of realisation in her eyes, when sleep left her and reality sunk in. She stared at him for a moment, red-rimmed eyes narrowing in confusion. “I’m sorry to wake you, darling.”

She sat up a little. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. There’s – there’s someone here to see you.” He said, and her gaze shifted to Thranduil. He moved aside, allowing Thranduil to kneel at Sigrid’s bedside. He fell into the armchair at the foot of her bed, watching the Elvenking warily. It frightened him how pale and fragile she was, making him wonder whether her healer was right – but had he lain her brother and sister to rest without her… no, she never would have forgiven him.

No harm would come to her again, not while he still lived. He’d made a similar promise once, the day she was born. He’d promised to make the word better, for her. His eyes raked over her face, committing every mark and bruise to memory, silently promising to do better.

He was tired, more so than he had ever been. It was not the feeling after a long day’s work, but a weariness that settled deep in his bones.

“You should rest, my friend.” Thranduil said, his voice startling him. He shook his head, though his eyelids continued to fall closed on their own accord. He watched the Elvenking as his long, slender fingers ghosted across Sigrid’s brow, whispering quiet words in a language he did not understand. His gaze shifted to his hands, something sharp twisting in his gut. His hands trembled, stained with the blood and dirt he did not know if he could ever wash away.

 

* * *

 

Sigrid remained in the healer’s care for weeks.

The colour was slowly returning to her features, but there was a listlessness about her that worried him. She was always so quiet. She barely ate, only managing a few bites if he begged it of her. Mostly she just slept. The way she twitched and cried out in her sleep, Bard wagered he had an idea of what she dreamed about.

Pyres were built and bodies were burned, leaving a smell of death in the air that lingered for days after. The Elvenking visited them every evening, always alone, often with a bottle of wine that he and Bard shared while Sigrid slept. The Elf did not push him to speak of his grief, but instead, spoke quietly of his own. His son was gone – Tauriel too – unable to face him after his actions.

Bard sometimes saw glimpses of the Elvenking’s true age in his eyes. To have lived so long. To have seen so much sadness…

Somehow it was both better and worse once the healers released Sigrid from their care.

He felt as if he had aged a lifetime in a matter of weeks; it took all his energy to climb the stairs, clinging to the banister for support. Sigrid, ever so pale and silent, was already in one of the rooms. There were so many rooms – too many, for just the two of them. He supposed that they must endeavour to make this quiet, unfamiliar place their home – but for now he would sleep in the dusty old armchair at the foot of Sigrid’s bed, finding some shred of peace in the knowledge that she was never far from him.

That night he dreamed he was walking through a beautiful field. There were cornflowers and daises as far as the eye could see. His hands were stained with dirt and blood. For a moment, he thought he saw his wife. She was just as beautiful as he remembered, but there was something sad about her eyes – he forgot, sometimes, just how much Sigrid took after her. But then he blinked and she was gone.

Bard woke with a start.

“Do not fall into despair, my friend. You have much to live for.” Thranduil had said that evening over his third glass of wine. The Elvenking’s eyes had been far-away and distant. Bard had looked past him and down at the barren land below with an overwhelming weariness pressing down on him. From where they had stood he could see the Long Lake, the calm waters reflecting the night sky.

“I let myself imagine this city restored. We would take what had been destroyed and rebuild it. It would wash away this sadness. The streets would once again be filled with life. Full of hope... But that was just a dream.” Grief and wine and exhaustion had loosened Bard’s tongue. “You act as if my life is some precious thing. What have I left to live for?”

“Is your daughter not precious to you?” Thranduil had asked, turning his gaze upon him. Those cold, expressive eyes had seemed to see into his very soul. “Take comfort in this, my friend. I have found that the beauty of mortals is that everything is fleeting. Even this storm shall pass. Your heart will not always be broken.”

Bard blinked, his eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness. He could just make out Sigrid, sleeping on her side, on the very edge of the large bed. She was shaking. He pushed himself out of the armchair and crept around the side of the bed as quietly as he could manage. There were tears running down Sigrid’s cheeks. Bard dragged his hand down his face. Thranduil had seemed so certain, but Bard could not yet find comfort in his words. He crouched down, knees aching in protest, and gently shook her awake.

Sigrid woke with a start. “Da? What – is – is everything alright?”

 _No, everything is not alright._ He almost replied, his heart heavy. 

“You were having a nightmare, love.” He said, avoiding the question, and gently wiped the tears from her face with his thumb.

“It wasn’t a nightmare.” Sigrid whispered back, eyes fluttering closed. “It was real.”

He would never forget the moment he found them; the three of them, lying on the cold, hard stone street, together until the very end.

“What are we going to do, Da?” Her voice was quiet, the words brittle. “How do we go on?”

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. He didn’t have it in him to lie to her. He gently brushed a loose lock of hair off of her face, the stitches that began at her temple and disappeared into her hairline were barely visible in this light. “But we must find a way, darling. Somehow.”

Sigrid reached out and grabbed his hand, clutching onto it tightly. “At least… at least we still have each other.”

“Aye,” he smiled weakly. “That we do.”

 

* * *

 

**October, TA 2945**

 

It took four long months for the three sons of Durins to recover from their injuries.

They should have died – all three of them – on the ice at Ravenhill. Fíli had accepted the inevitability of his death. His only hope had been that his brother would somehow survive. But survive they had, though not unscathed. Their wounds had run deep. Too deep to rely solely on ordinary medicine. Both Fíli and Kíli would be dead if not for Elven healing.

But his people soon forgot that.

After waiting eleven months for Tauriel to return from meeting a mysterious man of the Dúnedain and then over three years of sneaking off to Dale to visit his lady-love, his brother got the idea into his head that he was going to marry her. It was unheard of, a Dwarf – let alone a _Prince of Erebor_ – marrying an Elf. Dwarves had married Men before, taken Hobbits for lovers – if the lingering looks between his uncle and their resident burglar were anything to go by – but never had there been a documented union between Dwarves and Elves. Their peoples tended to stick to petty feuds and bloodshed.

Their alliance with the Men of Dale remained strong and prosperous, but there was already grumbling from some about their arrangement with the Elves.

“I’m going to marry her, Uncle!” Kíli yelled, pacing in front of Thorin and the Company. “Not matter what you say, I’m marrying her!”

“Kíli, lad, you’re a Prince of Erebor. You can’t marry her.” Balin said, sounding tired and regretful.

“I am a Dwarf first. A Dwarf who loves her!” Kíli shot back. “Everything else comes second.”

Thorin was sat at the head of the table with his head in his hands. Bilbo was sat to his right, looking between Kíli and their uncle with wide, worried eyes. The Company looked like they didn’t know what to think, Bofur was smiling slightly, like he half-expected this to be some sort of joke. Gloin looked like he was going to keel over. Fíli leaned against a pillar behind his brother, arms crossed over his chest, indisputably on Kíli’s side. He was on Kíli’s side, _always,_ but on this matter, he was the only one willing to be on his side.

“Our people will never accept it.” Thorin finally said through clenched teeth. “They’ll never accept an _Elf_ as their Prince’s wife. Least of all an Elf of Mirkwood.”

“Tauriel is no longer welcome in Mirkwood. She was banished by King Thranduil for helping us.” Fíli reasoned. Thorin turned his glower onto him and Fíli merely shrugged. “So technically she is not an ‘Elf of Mirkwood’ anymore.”

“Still an Elf.” Dwalin muttered, frowning at Kíli.

“Is that all that matters? Whether she is an Elf or not? Tauriel is good and kind and _wonderful_ and I would not be here if not for her!” Kíli shot back, his limp growing more evident the more he paced. The poison was gone, but the wound would never really recover. Fíli watched him carefully, worry creeping in. “Tauriel is… she is… _amrâlimê._ We should not have to hide.”

“Our people, they would never accept it. There is already enough instability, what with half of our people still in the Blue Mountains and the rest wishing to see Dain on the throne…” Thorin said, and he wasn’t wrong. The majority of the Dwarves within Erebor were Dain’s folk, those who hadn’t made the journey home, who whispered amongst themselves that they wanted a King who hadn’t been driven mad by goldsickness… “I’m sorry, Kíli. You cannot marry her. I won’t allow it.”

Kíli stopped his pacing. His hands curled into fists and he hung his head, his eyes squeezing shut.

“If Tauriel is not welcome in Erebor, then neither am I.” Kíli finally said.

His uncle and the Company reacted similarly. They were all either shocked or resigned. But Fíli… he had expected this. They both had. That was why Fíli had approached Bard months ago, seeking sanctuary in Dale for his brother and Tauriel. The once bargeman, now King, had been accommodating, granting them a home in the city in thanks for helping his daughters escape Laketown.

“Kíli, don’t do this…” Thorin warned.

“It is done, Uncle. If that is your answer, then this is mine.”

The two brothers shared a look. Kíli was giving him an out, but Fíli’s resolve had not wavered. Fíli had known since the moment she healed him in Laketown that there was something between the Elf and his brother, and so when Kíli had first come to him, a week after they had been released from the healing wing, he hadn’t been shocked to hear that the two were involved. When Kíli had told him about his plans to marry her, he hadn’t been surprised, but it had given him a great deal to consider.

“If Kíli is banished, then so –” He began to say, but Thorin cut him off angrily.

“Don’t say it, Fíli, don’t be a fool. I will not lose both my heirs in one day! Not over an Elf!”

“I belong with my brother.” Fíli answered firmly, steadfastly.

Thorin’s gaze was hard, but there was desperation in his eyes. “I do not wish to exile either of you, but one of my heirs cannot marry an Elf.”

“So name Dain as your heir.” Fíli told him. “You know I do not wish to be King.”

It was no secret. The Company knew how he felt, Balin especially. He’d discussed his feelings on ruling in great length with his Uncle, though Thorin had always chosen not to listen. Whatever half-dreamed hopes he had had of being the King of Erebor someday had died the moment his Uncle had left Kíli behind in Laketown. _One day you will be King and you will understand,_ his Uncle had said. But Fíli did not want to understand. He would always choose his brother.

“Let me think on it,” Thorin eventually sighed. “Give me time.”

Kíli glanced from him to Thorin, brows lifting dubiously. “How much time? I would have married her the day she came back. And that was _three years ago!_ But oh no, she wanted to wait, out of respect for you! She told me to give it time, to let Erebor rebuild first. I did that. Uncle, don’t you think I’ve waited long enough?”

“It’s nearly winter.” Bilbo piped up for the first time, straightening in his chair. “No time at all for a wedding. Wait at least until springtime, when the flowers are out. That will give Thorin at least five months to make a decision and in the meantime, Kíli will stay in Erebor and continue to _quietly_ see Tauriel.” 

“Five months?” Kíli echoed, glancing at Fíli uncertainly. Fíli shrugged. Five months was better than none, he silenced communicated with the gesture. Kíli nodded, understanding and blew a stray lock of hair off of his forehead. “Alright, fine. I can wait for spring. But we will marry, Uncle, whether you like it or not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is a fic I've been working on on-and-off for about a year, and at the moment it's about 3/4 done so updates will be a lot more regular than with my other fic, Forget-me-not. I was going to wait until I'd finished it to post it, but I got impatient. This chapter kind of sets things up, in the past and present. From the next chapter onwards, it'll be working towards TA 2945 from November, TA 2941 (I hope that makes sense!)
> 
> The title is from Stay Gold by First Aid Kit.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this first chapter! I'd love to know what you guys think of it :)


	2. healing

**Late December, TA 2941**

 

Out of the blue, Fíli’s nearly month long fever broke quite suddenly in the middle of the night.

He jerked violently awake at the touch of a hand on his forehead. His dreams had been muddled and confused. He couldn’t make any sense of them. Flickering images of the battle intertwined with memories of his childhood, a blur of colour and movement. Only the sudden pain he felt when he woke made him certain that he wasn’t still dreaming. The room was dark, lit by a single candle at his bedside and a torch sconce. Standing at his bedside, with a hand still pressed to his forehead, was a woman.

He narrowed his eyes in an attempt to concentrate, the world still blurring a little at the edges. It was only when the woman glanced up that he realised who she was and why she seemed so familiar. She was Sigrid, the bowman’s eldest daughter.

“Oh,” she said. She sounded surprised. “You’re awake.”

With that, she walked away. Fíli stared blearily at the spot where she had just been stood. He tried to call after her but his voice caught in his throat. He wasn’t sure if she was real or if he had imagined her. The land of dreams still tugged at him, trying to tempt him back. There was a dull ache all along his side and a sharp, stabbing pain in his shoulder when he tried to sit up. He barely managed to lift his head an inch off of his pillow. He turned his head to the side, squinting, and tried to make sense of where he was. He was in a room, not a tent, with stone walls and a proper bed. In Erebor then, he wagered.

He heard light footsteps approaching and then the bowman’s daughter reappeared at his bedside with a jug of water.

She looked differently than he remembered. She was dressed like a healer, with a stained off-white apron tied around her slender waist. Her hair was longer, braided to one side. The end of her braid tickled his bare chest as she leaned down, carefully wrapped an arm around his shoulders, and lifted him a fraction off of the bed. “Drink this,” she said and pressed a glass of water to his lips. He drank desperately, not knowing how thirsty he was until the first drop of water passed his lips. “Hey, hey, take it slow, alright?”

She released him and with a grunt, he fell back against his pillow.

“Wait,” he rasped, sensing she was about to leave. He reached out blindly, trying to grasp her hand as she turned away. She set the glass of water down at his bedside and looked down at him with a frown. “Please. My brother –”

Sigrid’s frown faded into something sadder and his heart lurched in his chest. “He’ll… he’ll be alright.”

“Kíli is alive?” Fíli’s eyes stung with the threat of tears when Sigrid nodded. “Truly?”

“He sustained substantial injuries during the battle – the wound on his leg was reopened and he took an arrow to the stomach. Somehow no major organs were damaged, but there was risk of infection and – well, he got lucky. You both did.” Sigrid told him, her tone subdued. Her gaze fell to his shoulder and her lips pursed in thought. “I need to check your shoulder.”

“So we won?” Fíli asked, breathless as she began unwrapping the old bandages on his shoulder.  

Sigrid paused for a beat, then nodded. “Yes, we won.”

“My uncle. Thorin. How is he? Is he –” Fíli remembered seeing Thorin and Azog on the ice, remembered cutting through waves and waves of Orcs trying to get to him.

Sigrid hesitated, her fingers pausing as she worked on trying to untie a knot on his bandages.

“He’s alive.” Was all she said, her gaze lowered, focused on his bandages. There was something more, something she wasn’t telling him.

“Please.” Fíli didn’t care if he had to beg. He’d fall at her feet and weep if he had to. “Tell me. Tell me the truth.”

“His wounds became infected. He still lives, but his condition is very unstable. That’s all I know.”

There was something about her eyes, he realised, that was what was different about her. Something sad. And as she leaned over him, carefully checking his shoulder, Fíli caught sight of a scar running across her temple. A fresh one. It looked like she’d had stitches. Had she been injured in the battle? He didn’t remember her hurting herself during their escape from Laketown. A horrible thought came to mind; he’d been so focused protecting Kíli, the Orcs in Laketown might have hurt her and he hadn’t noticed.

“Your stitches look ready to be taken out.” She said before he could ask about her scar. “Excuse me, I’ll go fetch a healer.”

That time, when he reached for her hand, he did not miss.

He caught her fingers as she drew away from him and clutched them carefully in his palm. Her hand was cold, her fingers long and delicate. Her sad eyes fell to their joined hands, a little furrow forming between her brows.

“Thank you.” He breathed, his eyelids far heavier than they’d been a moment ago. “For telling me.”

“You don’t need to thank me.” Sigrid said, and when she tugged her hand free, the tips of his fingers tingled long after she was gone.

 

* * *

 

Over the next few days, Fíli faded in and out of consciousness.

Sometimes when he woke, one or more members of the Company were sat at his bedside. Sometimes it was Bifur with a large bandage wrapped around his suspiciously axe-free head, or Ori furiously sewing, or Bilbo reading with his hairy feet propped up on the edge of Fíli’s bed, but more often than not, it was Dwalin pacing the length of the room, cursing colourfully under his breath. Every time he tried to speak to one of them though, he slipped swiftly back to sleep and they were gone the next time he woke.

But one time, when he woke, he was alone and there was a note sat on his bedside table.

The parchment was old, stained, but the lettering was neat and easy to read. Fíli pressed the note to his heart and smiled.

_King Thorin is awake. The infection has cleared. Give him a few weeks and he’ll be right as rain – Sigrid._

* * *

 

“I didn’t know you were a healer.” Fíli said the next time he saw the bowman’s daughter.

He wasn’t sure how long it had been – a week, maybe more. She was holding a pail of water in one hand and a cloth in the other, waiting while an Elven healer pressed crushed plants into the wound along his side. There was less chanting and glowing involved in this form of Elven magic. Fíli preferred Tauriel’s method. With every press of the Elf’s fingers he hurt, he had to bite back curses.

“I’m not.” Sigrid replied, watching the healer’s hands work. Her brow furrowed with concentration and she leaned in for a closer look. “With so many injured and so few healers, they were looking for volunteers to help in whatever way they could. It didn’t seem right, not to do my part.”

The Elf glanced up from his work and smiled. “I couldn’t ask for a more a dedicated assistant.”

“That’s… that’s good of you. Giving up your time to help others.” He meant it as a compliment, though the words came out strained as the healer resumed his prodding and poking. Talking distracted him from the pain and maybe – just maybe – he said it in the hope it might make her smile. “Most wouldn’t be so selfless. You could be with your family, and yet you’re here.”

Both Sigrid and the healer paused. The healer looked at him with a startled frown.

“I believe my work here is done. Sigrid, would you like me to –” The healer started to say, sounding oddly disconcerted, and gestured towards the pail Sigrid was still holding. Sigrid shook her head and the healer nodded, lips get in a grim line. It was the most expressive Fíli had seen the Elven healer, meaning he must have really put his foot in it. The Elf rose gracefully to his feet and wiped his hands on his apron before he touched Sigrid’s shoulder. “I shall leave you to it then. _N'i lû tôl.”_

After the door closed behind the Elf, Fíli looked at Sigrid, puzzled. “Did I say something wrong?”

“Elves,” Sigrid hummed. “I think emotions frighten them.”

She set the pail of water down at his bedside and lowered herself onto the edge of his bed. Her knee pressed against the side of his shoulder and he swallowed thickly. He watched her, suddenly very aware that they were alone and that he was wearing only a towel draped across his lap, as she dunked the piece of cloth into the pail and wrung out the excess water. Their eyes met and a ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of her lips.

“Most people aren’t usually awake for this part.” She explained and he tensed when she wiped the warm, damp cloth around the wound on his shoulder. She was focused, careful in her ministrations, and paused when the cloth skirted a little too close to his wound, checking his expression. He smiled faintly, in what he hoped was a reassuring manner, and she continued with a slight crease between her brows.

She was so close he could count the freckles that lightly dotted along the tops of her cheeks and across the bridge of her nose. Dwarves didn’t tend to have freckles; Fíli had been so fascinated when he’d come across them on his first human bedpartner. Had it not been a simple roll in the hay, he might have spent the night counting each and every one of them. Fíli blinked, realising it probably wasn’t the best time to be thinking about _that_ lest he find himself in an uncomfortable situation _,_ and cleared his throat.

He wondered if he should close his eyes, feign sleep, or if it would only make it more awkward for them both.

“So how is your father?” Fíli asked, needing to fill the silence. “And your brother and sister?”

Sigrid closed her eyes. Her hand stilled, pressing the damp cloth to his chest.

“Please.” She whispered after a long moment had passed, releasing a shaky breath. “Don’t ask me about them.”

Fíli remembered her scar and felt himself grow cold. It was naïve to think that only soldiers died in battle, but he’d never liked to imagine otherwise. The horns blasting from Ravenhill, the signal post pointed at the city – Fíli remembered watching hopelessly from the wall as the second army turned away from the battlefield and attacked Dale. Sigrid would have been there with her brother and sister, scared and defenceless – the little girl couldn’t have been older than ten. Fíli didn’t realise his hands were shaking until he tried to ball them into fists.

“I’m sorry –” He implored, his heart lurching in his chest. “Forgive me, I didn’t –”

“You didn’t know.” Sigrid said simply, tonelessly. She lifted her hand off of his chest and resumed her work. She glanced up at him for a moment, eyes guarded, and her lips twisted in thought. “Maybe I didn’t want you to know. Maybe… it was nice, having one person not know. The way they all look at me – like they think I’m going to break at any moment – like I don’t notice…”

“I know that look.” Fíli said, surprising himself by speaking the words aloud. Sigrid paused, glancing at him with slightly raised brows. “When my father died, everyone kept telling us how sorry they were, as if that would make it any better.”

“I…” Sigrid began with a distant look in her eyes. But then she shook her head, sighing. “I should tell Kíli you’re awake.” Sigrid said, drawing away from him. She dropped the cloth into the pail and wiped her hands on her apron. “He’s been fighting the healers about being moved in here with you. I’ll – I’ll see what I can do.”

And then she was gone, fleeing the room without so much as a backward glance. The pail remained at his bedside, forgotten. She didn’t come back, but Kíli was moved to his room later that day. A bed was carted into his room, waking him, and a moment later his brother was helped into his room by Oin and Tauriel. Kíli ignored the bed they pushed into the opposite corner. Instead he elbowed Fíli until he moved over and curled up beside him, falling asleep almost immediately.

“He was making himself ill. He refused to sleep unless he was with you… But the healers refused to move him in case he pulled his stitches. Thank the Valar they changed their minds…” Tauriel smiled softly, carting her fingers through Kíli’s tangled black hair.

Oin huffed. “Don’t be thanking the Gods, Elf, be thankful that young Miss Sigrid is awfully persuasive.”

After he was released, Fíli made an effort to visit Dale every few weeks to see Sigrid.

She was surprised, the first time he visited. He was the last person she had expected to knock upon her door, but she invited him in, all the same.

It began as an act of kindness – or perhaps, even pity, for he couldn’t imagine a world in which he was robbed of the ones he loved most. Not even in his darkest dreams did there exist a world where he was without his brother. It was only little things at first, small acts of kindness that he hoped might lessen the pain. Deep down, he knew that tea and the occasional kind word wouldn’t ease the pain of the dead, and his heart ached for her, for the girl who had lost so much because of him and his people.

He tried to do right by her, in part to absolve himself from guilt, but mostly in the hope that he might make her smile again someday.

 

**June, TA 2942**

 

That summer was unusually warm, even hidden away within the depths of their mountain the Dwarves of Erebor could not escape the heat.

Fíli wore only a light tunic and trousers to visit Dale, holding the reins of his pony – Bongo the second, in honour of the trusty pony who had seen him through a part of their journey – in one hand and a gift in the other. The summer solstice fell on Sigrid’s birthday that year, a day of great merriment amongst the people of Dale. There was to be a large feast and bonfire in celebration of the midsummer.

It had been Bilbo’s idea for him to visit her earlier in the day, to give her a gift before the festivities began. Why the Hobbit had looked so pleased with himself when Fíli had agreed to the idea, he had no idea. He had put it down to Hobbity oddness. As he did with most things.

It never ceased to amaze him how differently Dale looked to the burnt, desolate ruin it had been only seven months before. The city was decorated vibrantly for the festival, the streets filled with colour and life. People smiled brightly at him and wished him a good day as he passed. A little girl ran up to him, giggling sweetly, and looped brightly coloured ribbons into Bongo’s bridle. Fíli chuckled to himself and continued along the road.

He found Sigrid perched on a ladder, helping hang up a banner. He called up to her and she looked down, giving him a little wave.

“Just a moment.” She called back and finished hanging the banner. He held the ladder for her as she climbed down and she turned to him, cocking her head to one side. She gave Bongo a quick scratch behind his ear and the pony tossed his head, seeming pleased. “This is a surprise. You’re a bit early, if you’re here for the celebration.”

Fíli produced the gift from behind his back. “Happy birthday.”

“You didn’t have to get me anything.” Sigrid protested, but there was a small smile tugging at her lips. Fíli counted that as a victory.

“’Course I did. You got me something for my birthday.” A fine gift it had been as well, a new whetstone to replace the one he’d lost in Thranduil’s dungeons. “Bilbo made us all lunch yesterday and gave me the leftovers.” That wasn’t strictly true, but he wasn’t about to tell her that Bilbo had made the food _specifically_ for him to share with her. “Thought we could go for a ride and have a picnic somewhere. The festival doesn’t start until dusk, right?”

“I have an idea.” Sigrid said and glanced down at her clothes with a small smile. She was dressed similarly to him, in tan breeches and a loose navy tunic with the sleeves pushed up. Perfect riding attire. Fíli didn’t allow his gaze linger on her for long, as much as he might have liked to. “Let me just nip back to the house and grab some things. Then we can go?”

“Sure,” Fíli said and led Bongo through the streets until they reached the house where Sigrid and her father lived. He waited outside while Sigrid hurried into the house, idly running his fingers through Bongo’s mane. The shutters had been painted blue. They hadn’t been painted the last time he had been there. There were also flowerpots on the windowsills. Fíli had to stop Bongo from trying to eat their mint plant.

Sigrid didn’t leave him waiting long. She walked out of the house with a bag tucked under her arm and they walked together in a comfortable silence to Dale’s stables. Fíli was used to how reserved Sigrid tended to be and how little she sometimes spoke. It was never tense or uncomfortable, he never felt the need to fill the silence with noise – something which he liked to think she appreciated. He’d seen how others tended to act around her; talking her head off, thinking they were doing the right thing, never noticing her discomfort.

Sigrid’s horse was in the stables, it took only a few minutes for one of the eager stable hands to have the white mare saddled and ready to go. Her horse had been a gift from King Thranduil for Bard’s upcoming coronation. Sigrid tucked his gift into her bag and slung the strap over her shoulder. The stable hand helped her up onto the horse before Fíli could offer. She rode out onto the grassy plains while Fíli climbed onto Bongo’s back, giving the pony an affection pat.

“She’s called Thalias.” Sigrid told him as she ran her fingers through the horse’s white mane. “It’s Elvish for something. I’m not sure what, though.”

Fíli smirked. “Probably means ‘leaf’ or ‘lettuce’.”

“Oh, I hope not.” She snorted. “Would still be a better name than _Bongo the Second_ though.”

“Take that back!” He gasped dramatically. “You’ll hurt poor Bongo’s feelings.”

Much to his surprise, Sigrid led them to the lake. It was early in the afternoon, the heat was stifling, and the calm waters looked inviting, but he wouldn’t have thought she’d want to spend part of her birthday looking upon the ruins of her former home. The repairs to Esgaroth were slow-going, but clearly visible from where they stopped on the lake’s edge. Sigrid dismounted her horse and tied her beneath the shade of a tree. Fíli watched her curiously as he slid off of Bongo’s back and tied him to the tree as well.

“Have you been back here since…?” He started to ask, as carefully as he could.

“Yes.” Sigrid’s gaze flickered to the lake. “It was difficult at first, but not anymore. This was my home – the only home I’ve ever known – it felt strange to be so far away, to not hear the water or the cry of the gulls…” She turned back to him with a small smile melting away the melancholic look in her eyes. “I can’t say I miss the smell of fish, though.”

“Try hiding in a barrel filled with them.” Fíli muttered, earning him a wry chuckle. He scratched behind the pony’s ears before he unclipped his saddlebags and carried them over to wear Sigrid was stood.

Inside one bag was a blanket that he laid out on the grass and in the other was their lunch.

Sigrid dropped her own bag by her feet and sat down on the blanket beside him. She drew her knees to her chest and smiled faintly when she saw what Bilbo had made for them. The Hobbit really had out done himself, with a selection of pasties, sandwiches, scones, biscuits, and seedcakes. Fíli helped himself to a scone, liberally smearing some of Bilbo’s homemade jam over it, while Sigrid took a sandwich. She picked off of the crusts first and smiled to herself, holding them out in her palm.

“I never used to eat the bread crusts, Tilda always –” Sigrid stopped abruptly when she realised what she’d said. Fíli wondered how long it had been since she’d last said her sister’s name. She never talked about them, not to him at least. She closed her eyes and sighed. “Tilda always made me cut mine off my sandwiches and give them to her. She thought it would make her hair curly.”

“Did it work?” Fíli asked warily, taking a bite out of his scone.

Sigrid opened her eyes and gave him a watery smile. “No, not even a little bit.”

They ate mostly in silence, listening to the sound of the water lapping against the shore and birds singing in the trees. Her hair was pulled back from her hair into a long braid that ran down her back. He could see the scar on her temple, the one which disappeared into her hairline. It was faint, silvery, but visible to those who knew where to look. Fortunately for her, Bard had told him that it would likely fade in time. Fíli had scars of his own from the battle, ones which would never go away: the long, thin scar that ran along his ribs, the two rounded arrow wounds on his thigh and calf, and the worse, the jagged ugly scar on his shoulder that still ached sometimes.

Sigrid was eating her second seedcake when she remembered his gift.

“It’s not much.” He said, all of a sudden nervous. He watched her, wincing, as she pulled the gift from her bag and untied the bow. It had been difficult to decide on a gift for her. A gift for a Dwarf was straightforward, it was either weaponry, armour, or nothing at all. Anything else could be misconstrued as a courting gift. Sigrid opened the box and lifted out the three books inside. Traditional Dwarven folklore, a collection of Elven stories, and a history of Dale. All translated by hand by Ori. “You said you liked books, so I thought…”

Sigrid smiled, her eyes sparkling. “Thank you. This is… you are…”

“It’s nothing really. I just saw them in the library and thought you might like them.” Fíli played it off.

“I’ve never had such a good friend.” She murmured, reverently running her fingers over the spines of the books. Her smile faltered, and her grey eyes grew wistful as she set the books down beside her. “I don’t know why you put up with me.”

“Because even after everything that’s happened to you, you’re the kindest person I know.” Fíli said simply, shrugging. Grief turned most people cold or angry. It changed them. But it hadn’t changed Sigrid. He reached out, unable to bear seeing her look so sad, and gently touched his fingers to her chin, lifting her head so she’d meet his gaze. “Now stop this. I’m sure it’s bad luck to be sad on your birthday.”

Sigrid laughed quietly and rolled her eyes. “It’s my birthday, I can be sad if I want to.”

“If you say so.” Fíli smirked and laid back on the blanket, closing his eyes. He heard the rustle of pages next to him and smiled to himself. Books had been a wise choice. He’d have to remember to thank Ori again the next time he saw him. He lay there, dozing in the shade of the tree, for a long time while Sigrid read beside him. He heard her get up at one point, to lead the horses to water, and the soft, quiet sound of her voice lulled him back to sleep. There weren’t many people he felt so at ease around, next to none outside his kin or the Company.

“I think I might go for a swim,” he was only dimly aware of Sigrid telling him. “The water looks so lovely.”

And when he woke, he was alone.

He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and looked around him blearily. The horses were eating grass, still tied to the tree, and the spot next to him was empty. Fíli frowned deeply and looked to the lake. The waters were calm, quietly lapping against the shore. And there were Sigrid’s shoes. Left at the water’s edge. Fíli scrambled to his feet, stumbling over Bongo’s saddlebag. He called Sigrid’s name but there was no answer. He tore off his shirt and threw it aside.

He’d never been a very good swimmer – he was a Dwarf, after all – but he waded into the lake after her anyway.

The stones were slippery underfoot but he walked on them for as long as he could, until the water reached his chin, sloshed up his nose, and forced him to swim.  Even in the heat of midsummer, the water was bitingly cold. He was shivering, his teeth chattering. He couldn’t feel his toes or the tips of his fingers as he swam out into the lake, struggling to keep his head above the water. The lake brought back unwelcome memories of escaping Thranduil’s dungeons and apples – he shuddered – _never again –_

And then, several yards ahead of him, Sigrid suddenly broke the surface of the water, gasping for breath. But she was smiling – _smiling –_

Until she turned her head and caught sight of him. Her smile slipped from her lips.

“Fíli!” She cried, alarm flitting across her face. “What are you doing?”

“What am _I_ doing?” He yelled back, furious. “What the hell does it look like!”

Sigrid was already swimming back towards him, cutting through the water far faster and easier than he could ever dream of. As he watched her, he forgot to move his arms and his head slipped under again. Panic spiked through his chest and he splashed violently, fighting his way back up to the surface. And then there were gentle hands gripping his arms, guiding him back up. He broke the surface, coughing, gasping for breath.

“Are you trying to drown yourself?” Sigrid asked, her face close to his, looking at him in panicked disbelief.

“Me? I thought _you’d_ drowned! I thought I had to come in and rescue you.” He gritted out, fighting hard to keep himself afloat.

“I’ve been swimming in this lake all my life,” Sigrid said, somehow remarkably calm, though her hands tightened their grip on his arms. “Fíli, you need to stop fighting. The more you thrash around like that, the faster you’ll sink. If you let go, you’ll float.”

“You’re mad, woman!” He yelled back, fear making him angry.

Sigrid’s hands lifted off of his arms to clutch his face. His eyes fell to her lips, watching them as she spoke. “Trust me. I’m not going to let you drown. Now close your eyes.”

Fíli could only nod and do as he was bid. His heart was racing, hammering hard against his chest like it was trying to burst out of it. He felt Sigrid’s hands shift from his face to his shoulders and then his back. He closed his eyes, trying to focus on the gentle press of her hands against his bare skin and not the icy depths he was sinking further and further into.

“It’s alright, you’re alright, I’ve got you. Just focus on my voice. You’re safe, I won’t let anything happen to you.” Sigrid said, and somehow, slowly, he managed to stop thrashing around in the water so much. “Take a deep breath.” She murmured, her breath warm on his cheek. She gently guided him back, until he was lying on his back on the surface of the water with both her hands under him. Her hands were soft and warm on his bare skin. He opened his eyes, the tension draining out of his body when he saw Sigrid out of the corner of his eye and the blue sky above him.  “See,” Sigrid said, but the softness in her eyes didn’t match her teasing tone. “That wasn’t so hard.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He muttered. “Try not to sound so smug.”

She grinned slowly. “Well, I wasn’t about to let you drown on my _birthday._ Not after you got me such a lovely gift.”

Fíli splashed her and she laughed, loudly and brightly, like he had never heard her before. It was a sound he would never grow tired of. He turned his head to look at her, not minding that water was getting in his ears and his nose, and grinned. That was a sound he _definitely_ intended to hear again, not matter how long it took.

 

**November, TA 2942**

On the eve of the one year anniversary of the battle, Bard was crowned the King of Dale.

His crown was forged by the Elves and the thick chain of rubies hung from his neck had been a gift from the Dwarves. His long burgundy cloak was a gift from his own people, embroidered in gold and black thread with the new insignia of Dale. An arrow and a dragon. Bilbo’s idea. His coronation showed the unity between their three peoples. The ceremony was brief, a few traditional words were spoken and a blessing was given to the new King by Gandalf, who had just stopped in for a visit on his way to Rivendell – or so he said.

Bard looked every bit the King he was. It was strange to think of him now as the weary bargeman they had met on their journey, in worn boots and a patched up cloak. There was more silver in his dark hair than there had been then, and more lines on his face, but the man looked happy.

The celebration afterwards was lively; mead was flowing freely and bottles of Elvish wine were being passed around. Fíli found himself nursing a tankard, watching in amusement as Bilbo showed a bunch of Elves some form of Hobbit dancing. Fíli wasn’t sure whether he was pulling their leg or not. It involved a lot of kicking and jumping onto tables. The Elves seemed to find it delightful.

The anniversary of the battle would be a more sombre occasion; they’d all be worse for wear after a night of drinking, in no mood for great speeches and revelry. They all would mourn and remember in their own way, as they had done all year.

Fíli looked around the Great Hall for Sigrid and found no trace of her.

He’d hoped to speak with her, perhaps ask her to dance. She had stood at her father’s side throughout the coronation, looking beautiful in a gown that matched the deep red shade of Bard’s cloak. Her long, golden brown hair had been styled in a series of braids that almost seemed Dwarven, in contrast to the distinctly Elvish circlet sat upon her head. Fíli had tried to meet her eye but her gaze had remained lowered throughout the ceremony. He had not seen her since. Fíli walked through the hall, avoiding treading on any toes and been dragged off to dance.

He made his way outside, onto the large open terrace, and there he found Sigrid, leaned against the wall, looking out over the city.

“Sigrid?” Fíli called and she turned, looking momentarily disappointed that she’d been found. Her expression softened when she saw him however, and he took it as a sign that he was welcome. He walked over and leaned against the wall beside her, trying to see what she was looking at. Dale was covered in a light layer of snow and without thinking, he shrugged off his heavy cloak and draped it over her shoulders. Sigrid smiled faintly, though her expression was a little bemused, and thanked him quietly. His cloak was short on her, barely reaching the backs of her knees, but it would keep her from being cold.

Above them, the night sky was clear of clouds and filled with stars. Not for the first time, Fíli wished he knew the names of all the stars.

“You should be in there, enjoying the party.” Sigrid quietly said, still looking out over the city.

The Lady of Dale was much admired within both Dale and Erebor. Her service to the healers and the loss of her siblings had endeared her to his people. He’d heard her name being uttered many a time by young Dwarrows who thought themselves in love with her. Grief had not left her pale and sickly, but there was a haunted quality to her grey eyes that spoke of a deeper, unspoken sorrow. He imagined he knew why Sigrid was out here, alone, and not amongst her people on that night. It was one year, almost to the day, since she had lost her brother and sister.

“So should you.” Fíli countered, smirking when she glanced at him with a doubtful expression. “It’s for you, after all.”

“No,” she quietly sighed. “Tonight is for all of us.”

“If tonight is for all of you, then you should be in there with your people.” He pressed, even though he knew it would do little good. Sigrid’s stubbornness matched that of a Dwarf when she wanted to. “You’re a Princess now, after all.”

She groaned. “Don’t call me that, or I’ll start calling you ‘Your Highness’.”

“Which just sounds silly ‘cause you’re taller than me.” Fíli laughed, his chest warming when a small smile tugged at her lips.

“Everyone is taller than you.” Sigrid muttered and then reached over, stealing his tankard from where he’d set it on the wall. He watched, amused, as she took a sip and pulled a face. “What is this swill? Tastes worse than the stuff Percy used to brew in his attic.”

“That _swill_ is Ereborian mead.” Fíli chuckled. “So why are you out here all alone, truly?”

Sigrid looked at him for a long moment, as though she were debating in her head whether to tell him the truth or not. They’d come a long way since first meeting in Laketown. He liked to think that they were friends. Good friends, even. Sigrid took another sip of his mead, longer this time, and set it back down on the wall. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and sighed.

“I’ve been… receiving letters. From men wishing to marry me.” Fíli felt a sharp sting of _something_ – some feeling he didn’t recognise – in his chest when her words truly sunk in. Sigrid. Married. He couldn’t imagine it. And he found, the more he thought about it, that he didn’t like the idea. Judging from the expression on her face, Sigrid didn’t much like the idea either. “I knew it was bound to happen sooner or later, but there are so many. More than I had expected.”

“They all talk about _love_ and my _great beauty._ Like I don’t know _exactly_ what they want.” Sigrid continued, her voice dripping with disgust. She took another sip of his mead and sighed heavily. “I’m the sole heir to a weak but wealthy kingdom. It’s an opportunity too golden to pass up, I suppose... If only they were honest, I might consider it.”

“Your father would never force you into a marriage you didn’t want.” Fíli gritted out, his chest uncomfortably tight.

“He’d let me remain unmarried all my life if I wished it. But this is bigger than me and what I want – I’m an heir and heirs are supposed to make heirs…” Sigrid’s fingers curled around the stone railing, the skin over her knuckles turning white. She sounded so troubled; he wanted to comfort her but he didn’t know how. She seemed so small, his dark cloak seemed to swallow her up.

As much as Fíli disliked his position, he was fortunate in that he had the ability to choose his heir once he was crowned king. His heir did not have to be his child. He could remain unmarried and childless if he wished it and his kingdom would not suffer.

“Your father might decide to re-marry someday?” Fíli offered, even though he knew it was unlikely.

“I’d never ask that of him. This is my duty, it falls to me alone.” Her hands were trembling but there was such strength in her voice. Strength he marvelled at. “I have to think about my people and the future they want for themselves... We have gold, aye, but no real trade connections or army. If the Orcs came back, we’d have to depend upon you and the Elves again to keep us safe. We need another alliance, the kind that only comes through marriage…”

“But our people are allies, it’s our duty to protect –” He started to say, but Sigrid surprised him by reaching out and placing her hand over his.

“Fíli, my brother and sister are gone. My father will never have any more children. If I decide not to marry, if I choose never to have children of my own, to whom will Dale go when I am gone? Another man like the Master?” She shook her head with a heavy sigh. “No, I know what needs to be done... Whether I like it or not.”

“Sigrid…” He began, unsure what to say.

“But that doesn’t matter right now. I’m sorry I told you, it’s nothing, you – you should re-join the party.”

“Only if you join me.” He told her.

But Sigrid shook her head, her eyes shining with tears. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Then I’m not going anywhere.” Fíli murmured and turned his hand so that he could hold hers.


	3. duty

**May, TA 2944**

 

Fíli had been gone nearly a year, visiting his mother in the Blue Mountains with his brother. However, he wrote so often that she could not feel his absence too keenly. Almost every week, she received a raven from him with pages and pages of writing, each letter ending the same way. _I miss you more and more with each day that passes. Yours affectionately, Fíli._ She kept every letter tucked away in her desk, every word inexplicably precious to her. It felt like he was never far away if she needed him, even if she knew that in reality, he was far, far away from her.

She saw more of Tauriel in Kíli’s absence. The Elf’s duties as Captain of the Guard had kept her in Dale, though her father had given her permission to take a long leave of absence if she wished it. Sigrid often saw her on her way to the Great Hall in the mornings, observing the new recruits shooting arrows and sparring. The Elf would always smile warmly when she saw her and wave. More often than not, there would be a raven waiting for Tauriel as well, always with a letter from Kíli.

Unlike Tauriel, her letters weren’t always from a Dwarven Prince. Fíli was not the only one who was writing to her.

She had received dozens of proposals from men over the last few years since her father’s coronation, but there was only one to whom she had written back to. Edric of Gondor was the second of five sons of some Lord in a small province of Gondor. He was the only one who had written to her personally and pragmatically, never once speaking of love, but instead spoke plainly about his intentions. He could not offer her much in the way of gold, but a two dozen knights whom he had trained himself, horses, and a strong trading connection with Gondor. Which meant grain and much needed resources that her people needed desperately. She had received better offers, from richer, more powerful men, but none of them had written to her themselves and all of them spoke so many words, but really said so little.

Her father was against the idea, but she couldn’t think of herself or what she wanted, or listen to her father’s misgivings, she was turning twenty one that year and considered to be at the right age to be married. Everything she did, she did for Dale and her people. And if her people needed her to marry, then marry she would. Even if her head was at war with her heart.

And more than anything, she wanted to talk to Fíli and ask his advice.

Edric of Gondor was over ten years her senior, but somehow was a great deal younger than most who had offered themselves to her. He rode to Dale with his knights after several months of correspondence and arrived in May. A week later, she accepted his proposal. He was a quiet, well-mannered man, who never had much to say to anyone who wasn’t one of his knights. She supposed he was quite handsome; he was every bit a man of Gondor, well-built and tall, with long dark hair and olive skin.

His knights were exactly what he had promised; loyal and disciplined, the perfect soldiers to teach her people how to defend themselves. Training would take time, but it was a promising start. If Orcs and Goblins ever thought to return to Dale, they would find them less easy to kill. Her people would be able to sleep better at night knowing that.

When she wrote to Fíli, telling him of her intentions, he didn’t write back for weeks.

By the time a letter arrived from him, short and sweet, informing her that he was on his way home, she was married.

 

**September, TA 2944**

 

Married life wasn’t a great deal different from her life before, and that was just how she wanted it.

Her wedding had been a quiet affair, nothing grand or ostentatious. It was not the first wedding Dale had seen nor would it be the last. Her husband-to-be had seemed relieved; he was a straight-forward man, a soldier through and through, and she imagined that he’d never been one to enjoy being the centre of attention. The ceremony had been brief, presided over by her father – who had looked grim ever since she had told him of her plans to marry – and followed by a small feast.

She didn’t tell anyone how she sobbed on the night before her wedding, missing her brother and sister so much it _hurt,_ her heart tearing in half all over again. And not for the first time, she had wished Fíli was there. It had been a long year without her dearest friend by her side.

Her dress had been simple, something she’d likely wear on another occasion. Some of the dressmakers had written to her father to voice their displeasure that they hadn’t been able to make a dress for the Princess to wear on her wedding day, an occasion which – hopefully – would only come around once.

In truth, while she had no desire to wear something showy and expensive that she’d only wear once, Sigrid hadn’t been able to bear the thought of being married in a big white dress. It reminded her too much of Tilda and the games they used to play, where Sigrid was always the groom and Tilda was the bride, with a frilly white tablecloth draped over her head as a veil.  

Tilda had been the romantic; her little sister had dreamed of Elves and adventure and been born with her head in the clouds, while Sigrid had always been more grounded, old before her time. Tilda had had romantic notions about meeting a Prince who would sweep her off her feet, who’d wake her from some dreadful curse with a kiss or fight a fearsome beast to win her affections. But most of all, she had favoured the stories that ended happily, with true love prevailing.

And so when Sigrid looked at her husband, she was sure her sister would have been disappointed in her choice.

Edric was a good man, but he wasn’t what her sister would have seen as a _great_ man. He was never unkind, but spoke to her very little and spent most of his time with his knights. He left her to her own business, his only complaint was that they remained living under the same roof as her father and not in their own home, and visited her bed only when she invited him – which was few and far between.

Her people weren’t particularly fond of him – most were still inherently suspicious of outsiders – but had accepted him for her sake. She heard some girls in the market whisper about how handsome Edric’s knights were and smiled to herself when they also bemoaned how dreary they were to speak to. Half a dozen horses – four stallions and two mares – and three heavily guarded, well-stocked wagons of grain arrived a month after the wedding. Her people liked Edric a little more after that.

She imagined her people would like Edric a great deal more if they knew she was with child.

It was considered a blessing, a sign of good fortunate and a long, happy marriage to fall pregnant so soon after the wedding. No one knew, except for her father and two healers. The healers said she was about four months along. She wasn’t ready to tell anyone yet, least of all her husband. She thought about writing to Fíli but every time she picked up her pen, the words wouldn’t come.

Fíli didn’t write as often as he had before. She told herself it was because he was on the road, making it difficult to send and receive letters. It lifted her spirits even on a bad day to think that the Dwarf would be home soon. The necklace he had given her on her last birthday sat on her bedside, a fond reminder of one of the last days they’d spend together before he’d set out for the Blue Mountains.

When she finally received a letter, informing her that he would be back in less than a week’s time, she asked the watchmen to inform her – and Tauriel as well – the moment their party were spotted. And so, when a breathless guard burst into the Great Hall and told her that a group of Dwarves had been spotted on the west road, she didn’t hesitate.  She hurried from the hall, running through the city to the stables, where she stumbled into her husband and several of his men.

“My lady,” Edric said, looking momentarily startled to see her. “Are you well?”

“Yes, very.” She said, seeing a flash of red over Edric’s shoulder. A moment later Tauriel appeared, grinning from ear to ear. She heard Tauriel ask for the stable hand to saddle their horses and glanced back at her husband, who was frowning at her in what looked like concern. It was either that or irritation. It was never easy to tell with Edric. “If you’ll excuse me…”

She stepped around him and swung up onto Thalias’ back.

“In Gondor, ladies ride side-saddle.” Edric called out to her and she turned back in her saddle to look at him, not sure what to make of the comment. A few of his knights wore matching expressions, like they’d bitten down on sour lemons. She got the impression that they didn’t like her much. For just a moment, her heart thudded wildly in her chest, wondering if he knew. The healers had warned her that horse riding could possibly lead to a miscarriage. But it was impossible. The healers wouldn’t have told him.

“Well, we aren’t in Gondor. Here, women ride _properly._ ” She replied and Tauriel snorted as she rode up beside her.

“Do you need accompanying? My knights may join you –”

“That won’t be necessary.” She forced herself to smile. He was her husband, he was allowed to coddle her – or attempt to, anyway. “Tauriel is more than capable of keeping me safe. We’re only riding out to the west road to meet Prince Fíli and Kíli’s party. We won’t be gone long.”

“Oh, alright then. I suppose I shall see you for dinner then, my lady.” Edric said but reached out to grab her horse’s reins, stopping her. “Take care, there have been reports of travellers being attacked on the roads. My men and I will see to it, but in the meantime -”

“I’ll be safe, I promise.” She cut in, smiling a little more genuinely at his apparent concern. “I really must go.”

Edric released Thalias’ reins and nodded his head respectfully. “By all means.”

Sigrid dug her heels in Thalias’ side and the horse charged forwards. She and Tauriel raced each other, riding hard for the road that ran in from the west. It was a beautiful day, made sweeter with the knowledge that she’d soon see her long absent friends. The stifling heat of the summer had passed and the leaves were beginning change. It wouldn’t be long before the autumn harvest.

Once they passed the overlook, Sigrid could see a group of riders in the distance.

They met them half-way. When they were close enough, she saw Kíli throw himself off of his pony and run the rest of the way. Tauriel leapt off of her horse and tackled the Dwarf to the ground, peppering kisses all over his face. Sigrid looked away from them, smiling fondly, and met Fíli’s gaze. He looked the same. His beard was still short, he still had those ridiculous moustache braids, and he looked at her like – like no one had ever looked at her before. She slid slowly off of her horse and met him half-way, her jaw aching from smiling.

Fíli swept her up in a hug and his strong arms lifted her off of her feet. He smelt terrible after months on the road but she didn’t care. He was warm and familiar and she wrapped her arms around him, laughing.

“It’s good to see you.” Fíli murmured as he set her down on her feet, his smile warm and affectionate. “I’ve missed you.”

She smiled back, her eyes prickling with tears. “I missed you too. Never leave for so long again. I forbid it.”

“As my lady commands.” Fíli grinned and there was that mischievous gleam in his eye that she’d missed. She gave his shoulder a playful shove and he caught her hand, lightly rubbing his thumb over the thin gold band on her finger. He saw down at it for a moment, his expression difficult to read, and then he glanced back at her with a wry smile. “Weren’t kidding about the marriage then?”

“Afraid not.” Sigrid said. “His name is Edric. I’m sure you’ll meet him soon.”

Fíli hummed unconvincingly. “I’m sure I will.”

Kíli and Tauriel were still rolling around in the grass, kissing, and laughing like children. Fíli and Sigrid left them to it, departing with the rest of the party. She rode with them to Erebor, unable to stop her gaze from flickering back to Fíli every few minutes. Fíli told her about the Blue Mountains, the place where he’d grown up, and the great length his mother had gone to to scold them for almost dying in battle. Sigrid’s lips twitched, Princess Dís sounded like a formidable woman. She hoped to meet her someday.

“Have dinner with us tomorrow,” Sigrid said once they reached Erebor’s gates, forgetting all about her husband. “Da will be pleased to see you.”

She didn’t miss how Fíli’s gaze fell to the ring on her finger, his hesitation written clearly on his face.

“Please.” She pressed. “I insist.”

“Well, if you _insist.”_ Fíli smirked, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “I’d love to.”

 

* * *

 

If Edric was surprised that she had brought a Dwarf to dinner, he did not show it.

“Your Highness.” He said courteously, bowing at the waist. Fíli blinked, looking more than a little bemused, but returned the gesture good-naturedly. “My lady wife did not inform me that we were expecting guests, had I known I would have asked the cooks to prepare something more… suited to your tastes.”

“After so long on the road, I’ll eat anything that isn’t cram and rabbit stew.” Fíli chuckled and glanced at her. “Will your father be joining us?”

“King Bard has a meeting with his councilmen until later this evening, so I’d imagine not.” Edric replied, talking over her, and drummed his fingers on the pommel of his sword. “I hear the Blue Mountains are beautiful this time of year. Regretfully, I have never had a chance to visit there myself.”

Sigrid watched the interaction curiously, not quite sure what to make of it. The two were hiding behind polite smiles and small talk, but there was no mistaking the underlying tension there. Edric couldn’t be displeased with her that she’d brought a guest to dinner, not when he took his meals with his knights on most days and left her to eat alone. And Fíli – well, she wasn’t sure what Fíli’s problem was. She frowned and wordlessly turned on her heel, walking through into the dining room alone. They got the hint eventually. She was already sat at the table, sipping a glass of water when the two males followed her into the room.

She sat at the head of the table when her father was absent, mostly because she knew it got under her husband’s skin. Edric sat at the foot of the table, his brow furrowed. Fíli took a seat to her right, smiling obliviously. The cook served dinner a moment later, saving them from any awkward silence. Dinner was a simple roast with vegetables and gravy. She and her father still tried to do most of the cooking, to maintain some sense of normalcy, but it was difficult when they were both so busy. She waved away a glass of wine and Edric’s gaze flickered to her, a small smile touching his lips. She quickly looked away, nervously curling her fingers into her palm.

Fíli filled the silence with stories of his journey and Sigrid found herself slowly relaxing. She had missed that about him, his unfailing ability to calm her down. If not for her husband sat across from her, she would have reached across the table and taken Fíli’s hand. She doubted Edric would be too pleased if she took another man’s hand, even in friendship.

She didn’t have much of an appetite but picked at her meal for appearance’s sake.

“I hear Thranduil intends to make a visit this year.” Fíli said and smirked. “Thorin’s been grumbling about it all day.”

“Aye, for the autumn festival. Da’s looking forward to it. Every time he visits, he brings barrels of his special wine.” Thranduil’s visits always brought about a change in her father. He was happier, less burdened, and it wasn’t just the wine that made him that way.

“So how have you been? Your letters didn’t tell me much.” Fíli asked quietly.

His words were obviously for her ears only, but Edric picked up on them anyway. “Letters? What letters?”

“Fíli and I wrote to each other while he was away. Did you never wonder who I was receiving so many letters from?” Sigrid made herself smile at him and Edric hummed thoughtfully. Edric had never cared before – in his words, her business was hers alone – and so she frowned, not sure what had come over him, when his attention returned to his meal. “I’ve been well,” she said in response to Fíli’s question. “Busy. There’s always so much to do, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Fíli smiled warmly. “I’m glad to hear it.”

Dinner passed quickly and painlessly after that. She felt her heart sink when Fíli announced that he had to leave before it grew too dark. She walked Fíli to the door and hugged him before he left, Edric’s gaze practically burning a hole in her back. She watched her friend go, waiting until the Dwarf was out of sight before she closed the door. She could feel Edric’s gaze on her and she bit her lip, reluctantly turning around the face him. Edric was stood at the base of the stairs, arms folded over his chest, looking uncharacteristically uncertain.

“May I come to your room tonight?” He asked after a moment, catching her off-guard. That had been the last thing she had expected him to say. Sigrid hesitated, not in the mood for what inviting him into her room involved, but he quickly held up his hands. “Not for… that.” He explained, awkwardly shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I only wish to speak with you. In private.”

“Oh, uh, alright.” She mumbled. “I’m going to wait up for my father, but I’ll – I’ll meet you there?”

“As you wish.” Edric said, nodding his head respectfully before he walked upstairs.  

It didn’t take as long as she might have liked for her father to come home. Bard walked in through the front door little over an hour after Fíli had left, dragging his feet, lines of exhaustion clearly etched across his face. Sigrid scrambled to her feet and hurried across the foyer to him. She hung up his heavy coat while he stepped out of his boots and he pressed a kiss to her temple as she led him through to the kitchen.

On nights like this, it was as if things hadn’t changed. As if he was still a bargeman, weary after a long day on the river, barely able to stand on his own two feet. She fixed him a plate of leftovers and put the kettle on the stove while he ate. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine that they were home in Laketown. In their cramped little house, with a chimney that smoked and a ceiling that leaked. It hadn’t been much, but it had been her home. And oh, how she missed it.

“Thank you, darling.” Bard said as she handed him a cup of steaming mint tea.

“See you in the morning,” she murmured and stretched up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “I love you.”

Bard smiled. “Love you too.”

Edric was waiting for her in her bedroom when she eventually made herself venture upstairs. A part of her had hoped he might have given up and gone to bed after being kept waiting so long. But alas, he was stood with his back to her in front of the hearth. He was still fully dressed, but his shirt was untucked. He didn’t appear to have any intention of staying the night in her bed. Edric didn’t turn at the sound of the door closing behind her but clasped his hands behind his back.

“How is King Bard?” He asked, his attention remaining fixed on the fire.

“Tired. Worried... The attacks on the roads have been troubling him.” She replied as she unfastened the string fastenings on her bodice. She was careful not to loosen her dress too much, her skirts still kept the small swell of her stomach hidden from sight. “The autumn festival will do him some good. He’s always in better spirits after a visit from the Elves.”

“Indeed. It was… interesting to meet Prince Fíli at long last. Illuminating, in fact. Dwarves are typically such a secretive race, it is rare to hear them speak so candidly with an outsider.” Edric turned as she pulled the pins from her hair and let it fall loose around her shoulders. He watched with an odd expression on his face, his head tilted to one side as she raked her fingers through her hair, working out the knots. “I do believe he holds a great affection for you.”  

Sigrid frowned. “Is this what you wished to speak to me about?”

“No, I merely thought I should point it out. You may need to be careful in the future.”

“Be careful?” She echoed, bewildered. “Be careful of what? Of Fíli?”

“It doesn’t matter. That isn’t why I asked to speak with you. I wished to ask whether or not you are with child. I’ve had my suspicions but I wanted to be sure.” Sigrid stared at him, aghast, wondering how the man could speak so casually about such things. She nodded, unable to speak, and Edric hummed, sounding neither pleased nor displeased. His nonchalance on the matter was terrifying, when compared to Sigrid, who had been a bundle of nerves ever since her monthly bleeding had first failed to arrive. “I thought so. I’m told you’re usually barely ever without a drink in your hand at dinner -”

“You’re _told?_ ” Sigrid exclaimed but he continued as if she hadn’t spoken.

“- and you’ve displayed many of the same symptoms as my brother’s wife when she was with child.”

“Symptoms? What symptoms? You’re never here – how could you…” She found herself saying, her hands trembling as she brushed a loose lock of hair away from her face, but he paid her no attention.

“If you have not seen a healer, you must do so at once. Your own mother died in childbirth, did she not? So surely you understand the risks.” Edric continued, not seeming to notice her distress at all. He paced in front of the hearth, hands clasped behind his back. “Our son will be a soldier, not some snivelling Princeling hiding behind his mother’s skirts. Should the child be a girl, she will be a proper lady. Educated. She will have a governess. As is the custom in Gondor.”

“A governess?” She frowned. “Why would I need -?”

“You are to be Queen someday, motherhood should always come second to that.”

Sigrid felt sick. Her hands were shaking by her sides so she curled her fingers and dug her nails into her palm. She had chosen Edric above all the rest because of his pragmatism. But at the moment, she hated him for it. If Fíli had been the person stood in front of her, he would have seen her distress at once. He would have taken one look at her and known that something was wrong. And he wouldn’t have mentioned her mother’s death so offhandedly, like it was _nothing_. She closed her eyes, fighting hard against the urge to scream for him to leave her sights.

“If that’s all… I’m tired, I wish to be alone now.” Sigrid muttered, unable to meet her husband’s gaze. She didn’t hear his response, only the sound of the door quietly closing behind him a moment later.

Her hands trembled as she finished loosening the stays of her dress. Her dress pooled at her feet and she stepped out of it, leaving it on the floor. She walked over to the fire and collapsed into one of the armchairs. Sat in just her shift and small clothes, she couldn’t hide from the small swell of her stomach. She splayed her fingers over her stomach, longing for her mother like she hadn’t in years.

And for the first time, she truly wondered whether marrying Edric had been a mistake.

 

**October, TA 2944**

 

A month after Fíli arrived back from the Blue Mountains, Edric and his knights were attacked on the northern road by a pack of Orcs. The Orcs were all killed, but two of the men died. Including her husband. The bells had rung when the knights returned, carrying her husband’s body. They had taken him straight to the healers, even though there was nothing to be done. He had taken an arrow to the neck, dying almost instantly. He had not suffered. The next morning, he was buried according to the traditions of his people, his funeral quiet and respectful.

“I understand, if you wish to return to Gondor.” Sigrid addressed the knights once the ceremony was over. They had been Edric’s men, through and through, and in spite of the arrangement that had been made when they were wed, she didn’t feel right keeping them where they no longer wished to be. “You have my permission.”

Only two of Edric’s knights elected to remain in Dale, the rest were grateful to be allowed to return home.

“I’d like to stay, my lady.” One of the knights stepped forward. Fultheim, she believed his name was. He lowered himself to one knee before her. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to honour my late lord by pledging my sword to his son. I failed Edric, but on my life, I won’t fail his son.”

“Aye,” the other knight said, taking a knee. “It’s only right that a child should know their father. And knew him we did.”

“Thank you.” She murmured, not quite sure what else to say. There had been no official announcement of her pregnancy yet, but it didn’t surprise her that Edric hadn’t kept it a secret from his men. “That means a great deal to me. But please know, should you ever wish to return to Gondor, you may do so. You are men of Gondor, you are under no obligation to me.”

The knights thanked her quietly as she passed, still bowed down on one knee. She leaned heavily on her father throughout the walk back to Dale, her stomach twisting and turning uncomfortably. They were both wearing black. She hadn’t thought she’d have to wear that colour again, not for a long time. It brought back painful reminders for them both of a time they wished to forget. Her people smiled sadly at her as she passed, looking at her with pity in their eyes, no doubt cursing her misfortune. She hated them for it.

“I’m sorry, darling, I promised I’d meet with Tauriel and the rest of the guard about the patrols on the roads. Will you be alright on your own?” Bard said regretfully. He turned to face her, brushing the backs of his fingers across her cheek. “I can meet with her another day -”

“No, it’s important you meet with them. There needs to be a more regular patrol on the roads. I’ll be alright. Don’t worry.” Sigrid said and stretched up onto her toes to kiss his cheek. She smiled weakly and turned away, calling over her shoulder, “I’ll see you when you get home.”

Fíli was waiting for her on the front step when she finally made it home. She felt a flood of emotions when she caught sight of him. She hadn’t seen him in a month, not since he’d come over for dinner. She ought to be angry with him, for going away for so long and not even bothering to visit her once he had returned, but she wasn’t. She was so glad to see him that she felt tears welling up in her eyes. She didn’t want them to, but there was no stopping the onslaught. Tears spilled down her cheeks and she sobbed like she hadn’t in months, not since the night before her wedding.

But it wasn’t because of Edric that she was crying, and she hated herself for it. 

She felt Fíli’s arm wrap tightly around her shoulders. He guided her into the house and when the door was closed behind them, he drew her into his arms. She bowed her head, sobbing into his shoulder. He murmured softly, trying to calm her down, and held onto her just a little too tightly. She wasn’t sure how long she sobbed and hold long he held her for; she wasn’t even aware that they had moved until her tears slowly subsided and she saw that they were sat in the living room. Fíli smiled softly when she lifted her head off of his shoulder. His gentle hands cupped her face and brushed away her tears with his thumbs. She leaned into his touch, sighing despairingly. No one but her father had seen her cry like that, but she couldn’t find it within herself to feel embarrassed.

“I’m sorry,” Fíli said, his smile turning sad. “I’m so sorry, Sigrid. Did – did you love him?”

That was, perhaps, the last thing she had expected him to ask. “No, no, of course not… I barely knew him.”

“Then why…?” Fíli asked slowly, tentatively.

Sigrid lowered her gaze, her eyes already stinging with the threat of more tears. So many times, she’d tried to tell Fíli. She had wanted to write to him the moment she first suspected that she might be with child and again when the healers had confirmed her fears. She’d wanted to run to Erebor the night Edric had told her he knew and ask him what the hell she was supposed to do. But every time, she’d been too afraid. Too afraid of what he might think, too afraid that it might change things…

“I’m pregnant, Fíli.” Sigrid said, lifting her gaze. Fíli was frozen in shock but there was something in his eyes – an emotion she couldn’t decipher. “And I’m so afraid.” She bowed her head and his hands slid away from her face, falling to her shoulders. “People always die around me, Fíli. It’s like I’m _cursed_. And I’m - I’m afraid that it will die inside of me. Afraid that it will kill me. But most of all…” She closed her eyes, not sure she was ready to admit the terrible truth she’d kept hidden away for so long. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to love it. I feel like there’s an empty space in my chest where my heart used to be.”

“Oh Sigrid, _ghivashel,_ you aren’t cursed.” Fíli finally said, drawing her close again. The word was unfamiliar but she liked the sound of it from his lips. She felt his lips brush against her temple and she closed her eyes again. “You have lost so much. Mahal would not be so cruel to make you suffer any further. I cannot promise you anything, but I know in my heart that this darkness will pass.”

And then she felt it –

A flutter in her stomach. So light she barely noticed it. She had never felt anything like it.

Slowly, she drew away from Fíli and pressed her hand to her stomach. Distantly, she was aware of Fíli murmuring her name but she barely heard him. She rubbed her hand over the swell of her stomach and felt it again, a light fluttering feeling. She remembered as a child, her mother pressing Sigrid’s hand to her belly. _The baby has hiccups,_ her mother had laughed, _do you feel her, darling?_ A ghost of a smile touched Sigrid’s lips as she wondered if her own child had hiccups. It should have been nothing – it was only natural, after all – but it felt like… it felt like…

It felt like hope.


	4. longing

**February, TA 2945**

 

“Apparently _,_ ladies in Gondor are locked away in their rooms in the last two months of pregnancy. _Confinement,_ they call it.” Sigrid snorted, glancing up from her letters from her late husband’s mother. “It says here that if I am to be a _proper_ lady, I should make myself comfortable and surround myself with only female servants and deny myself anything but plain food. Wait - no, that can’t be true. Surely she’s pulling my leg…”

As though out of spite, Sigrid picked up the half-eaten slice of Bilbo’s blueberry tart she’d been eating earlier and finished it off. Fíli watched, fighting a smile, from the foot of her bed. Though he would never admit it, lest he faced her wrath, he did see some sense in her late husband’s mother’s advice. Throughout the past few weeks, Sigrid had been pushing herself too hard and continued on as if nothing had changed, trying to live the same busy life as she had before. She’d fainted in the Great Hall and since then she’d been forced to stay in bed and let others do work for her for a change. Fíli had visited her every day.

“She wants to know if she should send a governess from Gondor. I don’t even know what a governess is.” Sigrid grumbled, setting the woman’s letters down beside her. She’d told him that she’d written to Edric’s mother only because it seemed the right thing to do. He wagered that she hadn’t expected such a lengthy response. Nor such a regular correspondence. “Did you have one?”

“’Course not. Why would I have had a governess?”

“You’re a prince.” She said, pointing out the obvious. “And according to Edric’s mother, princes have governesses…”

“I was born a prince in _exile._ A much different thing.”

Sigrid cocked her head to one side, looking at him like she was trying to work out whether he was teasing her or not.

“Well… I mean, Balin tutored us sometimes, Uncle too, but I don’t think that counts.”

“It counts. Most people I know don’t even know how to _read_. We were lucky Da forced us to learn. Although –” Sigrid said with a wry smile, gesturing to the discarded letters beside her “- it says here that my penmanship leaves ‘much to be desired’. I suppose I ought to find someone to write my letters for me. Do you think they’d sign my name with hugs and kisses if I asked?”

Fíli smirked. “Did they not teach you diplomacy either in Laketown?”

“Diplomacy?” Sigrid snorted, her irritability oddly charming. He struggled not to laugh when she continued, grumbling. “I grew up thinking I’d be lucky to spend my life emptying out the Master’s bloody _bedpan_ for a living or working on the docks with the fishermen. I didn’t expect to be considered some _great lady,_ locked up in her bed all day.”

Fíli wondered what Edric’s mother would make of them – her daughter-in-law entertaining a Dwarf in her private chambers, wearing nothing but a robe and her nightclothes. His lips twitched just thinking about it. Sigrid caught his smile and scowled. “This isn’t funny! I’m losing my mind just lying around in here all day. Please tell me something interesting is happening in your life because there’s certainly not in mine.”

Sigrid didn’t wear her wedding ring anymore. That was what was interesting in his life.

“Let’s see… the were-worm tunnels were finally completely collapsed last week. I heard Thorin say something almost complimentary about Thranduil. Uh, Bongo the Second had his mane trimmed. A war-goat escaped from his pen and somehow found his way to the library… Oin and Balin got drunk and announced to everyone that they were going to reclaim Moria… What else? Oh, Bilbo made us all scones the other day and Thorin sulked all day ‘cause his was burnt…” He rambled on until Sigrid balled up her letter and tossed it at his head. “Well, that wasn’t very dignified. What will the proper ladies of Gondor think of you?”

“To hell with what they think.” She muttered, but he caught sight of a smile tugging at her lips. Her gaze flickered to him, a playful gleam in her eyes. “Would we still be friends if I was _proper_ and dignified, Fíli?”

Fíli screwed up his face, like he had to think about it. “Probably.”

“What would my people think of me if I suddenly put on airs? They’d laugh themselves silly!”

He couldn’t quite imagine her as one of the strange creatures Edric’s mother described, perfectly poised and regal and aloof. Sigrid had never quite lost that roughness and drive from growing up poor and struggling, and he would have her no other way. She knew her people, understood them, _cared_ for them, and would never allow them to suffer and struggle the way she once had.

“They wouldn’t laugh at you. They respect you too much.”

“Maybe.” She shrugged. “Either that or they’re afraid Da will shoot arrows at them.”

He laughed. “Aye, that too.”

“Really though, if I acted _respectable -_ at least in the way Edric’s mother sees it - I’d be a laughing stock. It would be like when Alfrid got his job with the Master and thought he was better than the rest of us. Tried to get us to call him _sir._ Like we hadn’t known him when he was a guttersnipe. I don’t want to be like that. I never want this…” She said, vaguely gesturing around her, “to change me.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll always be the girl whose toilet I climbed through to me.” He said and she laughed.

“Oh! Speaking of toilets, how’s Kíli? I haven’t seen him in a while.”

“You heard _toilets_ and thought of my brother?” He laughed to himself. “Kíli is, well… _Kíli.”_

“Still trailing after Tauriel like a love-sick puppy?”

“’Fraid so. Last week he asked to practice poetry on me. Think it went along the lines of – ‘if I kept track of every time I thought of you, the list would be as long as my beard’. Doesn’t quite work when he’s still as baby-faced as a wee Dwarfling.”

“Not everyone can have such impressive moustache braids.” She chided, teasing.

“Aye, they are impressive. Not to mention _dashing._ And roguish. And –”

“Enough about your bloody moustache.” Sigrid rolled her eyes and patted the empty space next to her. “Come here. You’re too far away.”

Fíli crawled up the bed to lie on his side beside her. He’d never been very good at denying her anything. The bed was warm and soft and it smelled like her. Sigrid smiled faintly and laid her head back against the headboard. “That’s better,” she murmured and looking at her, he yearned for something he couldn’t put a name to. Her hand lay beside his. It would be such a simple thing, to reach out and take it.

And there it was again, a quiet kind of pain in his chest he’d been feeling for months.

He wasn’t even sure what it was he felt. Kíli seemed to know better than he did. His brother had barged into his room on Sigrid’s wedding day with two bottles of rum, somehow knowing exactly what Fíli needed before even he knew himself. Kíli hadn’t asked him to talk about it – if he had, Fíli wouldn’t have known what to say. He still didn’t. All he knew was that friendship wasn’t supposed to tear at him so.

“Oh,” she said after a long moment had passed. Fíli had felt himself falling asleep, lulled into sleep by the softness of her mattress and the warmth of her beside him. He jolted awake when she sat up a little, blinking. She reached out for his hand and placed it on the swell of her stomach. His hand jerked away on instinct, but she pressed it there determinedly. “Do you feel that?”

He felt something kick against the palm of his hand and laughed quietly, startled. It was a strange feeling, like nothing he’d felt before. He had been too young to remember his mother when she was pregnant with Kíli. He only remembered her telling him that Kíli had kicked at her like he was trying to fight his way out. Fíli smoothed his hand across the roundness of her belly, following the gentle kicks.

“Are you still afraid?” He asked, recalling their conversation after Edric’s funeral.

“A little,” she quietly said. “The healers say that the baby is strong and we’re both healthy and that nothing’s likely to go wrong, but I still worry.” The kicking had stopped but Fíli couldn’t bring himself to move his hand away just yet. “I used to think… I didn’t mind the thought of dying, not if it meant I’d be with Bain and Tilda again. But now I’m scared of leaving Da – leaving _you –_ leaving this child alone…”

“That’s not going to happen.” There was a hard edge to his tone that surprised them both. He didn’t tell her that losing her would destroy him. He hadn’t much cared for Edric – in truth, from the moment he’d met the man he’d disliked him intensely – but he had been an unfortunate reminder of the fragility of life. Every moment was precious. Fíli lifted her hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles. Her hand was cold and soft and so delicate compared to his, he never wanted to let go. “I won’t allow it.”

Sigrid laughed, her eyes bright with tears. “I don’t think it works like that. But I –”

There was a knock at the door, interrupting whatever Sigrid had been about to say. Bard stepped into the room, closely followed by a healer. Bard murmured an apology for the interruption and Sigrid sighed quietly, disappointed.

Fíli took that as his cue to leave. Regretfully, he let go of her hand and stood.

“I’d best be getting back to the mountain. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Fíli said and Bard patted his shoulder as he passed. He didn’t let himself look back until he reached the door. Walking away from her was never easy, and he glanced back when he pulled the door open, meeting her gaze for just a moment before he forced himself to leave.

He caught sight of Sigrid’s smile as he turned away, his heart growing heavier with every step he took.

 

* * *

 

A week later, Fíli was woken in the middle of the night by a loud, persistent knocking at the door to his chambers.

The door opened a moment later. Heavy footsteps crossed the large foyer and entered his bedroom. He groaned and rolled onto his side, blinking against the sudden light as a lantern was held out in front of his face. It took his eyes a moment to adjust and when they did, he wasn’t sure whether it was still dreaming or not. A guard was stood at his bedside, holding out a letter to him. There was a raven sitting on his shoulder. It wasn’t the strangest thing he had ever woken up to, but it definitely made the list.

“Forgive me, Your Highness, but this raven arrived for you. Seems urgent, the bird’s refused to leave my side. Either that or the damn thing’s taken a liking to me.” The guard said gruffly, shooting the raven on his shoulder a dirty look. The bird squawked loudly, as if in response. Fíli took the letter and sat up, rubbing his eyes. The letter was brief, the words messy, as though written in a hurry.

_The Princess was woken by pains, it appears that the baby is on its way. King Bard asked me to inform you – Percy._

He stared down at the letter, panic lacing through him. And then he was on his feet, stumbling around his room, trying to find his boots and some pants. He pulled on the first pair of trousers he could find, forgetting the guard who was still stood, bewildered, beside his bed.

“’Tis cold out there, Your Highness, might want to consider a coat.” The guard suggested, looking pointedly at the loose tunic he was wearing. Fíli grunted in thanks, rifling through the chaotic mess that was his cupboard until he found his warmest coat. He dressed with trembling hands, his heart hammering wildly in his chest, wondering if it was just a false alarm, wondering if he was too late, wondering if –

He shook his head, trying to disperse the thoughts.

The guard followed him, the raven still sat stubbornly on his shoulder, as he stormed through Erebor. Poor Bongo was sleeping when he finally reached the stables. The pony looked thoroughly displeased to be disturbed. He saddled him quickly, while silently praying that that night’s snowstorm hadn’t blocked the road. He called his thanks to the guard as he led Bongo through the stables and out into the night. The guard called something after him but the words were lost to the wind.

Fíli swung up onto Bongo’s back, straining his eyes to make out the faint glimmer of braziers in the distance. The wind had picked up, along with the snow, but mercifully the road between Dale and the mountain remained traversable.

Unable to risk more than a trot over the icy, uneven ground, it felt like centuries had passed when he finally reached the stone bridge leading into Dale. He had no choice but to dismount and leave Bongo in the stables outside the city walls, not wanting to tie the poor creature out in the snow. The city was silent and still, no sound filling the night other than the howling of the wind. He trudged along the dark, empty cobblestone streets, navigating the winding alleys until he reached the former residence of the Lord Girion of Dale, now the home of the King. There was a light shining out of one of the windows, the shutters blown open.

He shook the snow from his hair and stamped his boots before he reached for the door. Fíli stepped inside the house and was hit at once by the silence. Everything in the house seemed so still. There weren’t any candles lit, leaving it in total darkness. He thought was silence was terrifying, and then he heard a scream. He threw off his snow-covered coat and took the stairs two at a time, his heart racing. He felt like he was charging into battle once again.

“Fíli.” Bard was stood in the hallway outside of Sigrid’s bedroom, his expression weary. There were dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep. He heard voices from inside of the room and when Sigrid’s sobs passed through the closed door, it nearly tore his heart out. Bard didn’t look like he was faring much better. The man raised his hands to grip his hair, his knuckles growing white with the strain. “They won’t let me in. Nor you, I suspect. But it’s – it’s good that you’re here, Sigrid will be glad to see you once… once this is all over.”

“I came as soon as I could. How is she? Have the healers told you anything?” He asked desperately, gaze fixed on the closed door. He cursed it, knowing it was all that lay between him and the woman he –

Another cry echoed throughout the house, almost tearing his heart in two. “It’s been like this for two hours – maybe three. No one’s come out to tell me anything, not for – not for some time. They just locked the door and told me to wait. They – they said the less people in there the better, less of a chance of her falling ill with fever...”

Fíli met the man’s gaze, realising how much more painful it must be for him. Struggling with memories of his wife’s death and fears that the same fate might befall his daughter. Fíli reached out and clasped the man’s shoulder. Bard bowed his head, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. Sigrid hadn’t told him much about her mother, it still pained her to talk about her. She’d only spoken of how she had died shortly after giving birth to Tilda of fever, and the great love her father had had for her.

Fíli closed his eyes and slumped against the wall opposite Sigrid’s door. Hearing her in pain and knowing there was nothing he could do to help her was killing him. There was an ancient, dusty grandfather clock at the end of the hallway. It chimed, marking the third or fourth hour, and Bard looked at it for a moment before he resumed his pacing, his hands fisted in his hair.

He hadn’t known what to think when Sigrid had first told him she was with child. It had been a great shock. And at first, he’d been inexplicably filled with what felt like jealousy. He hadn’t understood it. Sigrid’s child would grow up never knowing their father, the same way Fíli had – and yet, in that moment, he’d felt only jealousy towards a man who no longer lived, who had died without ever knowing his own child. It was the kind of jealousy that had left him feeling sick, disgusted with himself. It shouldn’t have come as such a surprise. Men didn’t struggle, the way Dwarves did, to have children. At first he’d wondered if that was it, if his jealousy was born out of a desire to have children of his own. But he had never considered it before, never once entertained the idea of having a family. Not until –

The noise from inside of the room had grown quiet.

Bard and Fíli looked at each other, both waiting, both praying for something – _anything._

The silence seemed to stretch on for a long time. He curled his fingers inward, digging his nails into his palm. The slight sting helped him concentrate. Fíli was a Dwarf, he didn’t have an Elf’s endless patience. He was moments away from kicking down the door, nearly out of his mind with fear. It didn’t help that he kept hearing whispers of Sigrid’s words to him after Edric’s funeral in his ears. _I’m afraid that it will kill me._ He hadn’t let himself think of it at the time, hadn’t let the thought even enter his mind. But now – Mahal save him, it was all he could think. He couldn’t lose her, not his Sigrid, not when he had never told her that -

A cry filled the room. Not Sigrid’s, but another’s. It was louder, higher pitched, and not filled with agony. It was the sound of a child’s first breath. And then, after what felt like years, the door cracked open and a healer peered out at them. Her face lined was with exhaustion and the apron tied around her waist was bloody. Bard straightened, surging forward, but the healer held out her hand, stopping him from entering the room.

“You have a grandson,” the healer said. “Strong and healthy.”

“And Sigrid? Is she well?”

“Aye, Your Grace, the Princess is well. She’s been through a great deal, so give her some time and then I’ll let you in to see her. One at a time, mind you. Don’t want her getting overwhelmed.” The healer said before she slipped back into the room, firmly closing the door behind her.

Fíli felt himself laugh breathlessly, relief hitting him like a sledgehammer. He felt the fears he’d been carrying for so long slip away. The pressure on his chest slowly eased off, until he felt like he could finally breathe again. And in that, he wasn’t alone. Beside him, Bard tipped his head back and grinned. Ordinarily, the man’s eyes held the same haunted quality as Sigrid’s, having borne such great loss, but in that moment, they were bright and filled with happiness.

It was only right that Bard was the first permitted into the room. Fíli didn’t mind waiting, Sigrid and the child were hale and healthy and out of harm’s way, and that was all that mattered. The healers filed out of the room in time, smiling at him as they passed. One of them was carrying a bundled up ball of bloody sheets that sent a thrill of fear down his spine. But he could hear Sigrid’s voice as she spoke with her father and it calmed the fear inside of him. He closed his eyes, focusing on that. Only one healer remained, the same who had spoken with them before. She opened the door eventually, wordlessly giving him permission to enter.

But Fíli hesitated.

He didn’t know why, not when he knew that what lay on the other side of the door was all he wanted. He was a mess of emotions and it made him falter. This was – perhaps – the happiest he had ever felt, yet at the same time he was _terrified._ He closed his eyes and gathered his courage, forcing himself to take that first step into Sigrid’s bedroom. The healer patted him on the shoulder as he passed, and he weakly smiled back. The room was so quiet and still. His boots seemed unnaturally loud against the floorboards; they creaked and groaned in protest underneath him.

Fíli looked up from his feet and Sigrid’s sweet, teary smile warmed him to the bone.

Her hair was a mess of knots and curls and stuck to her forehead with sweat, her cheeks were flushed, her eyes heavily shadowed from a sleepless night, and yet she was the single most beautiful thing he had ever seen. His heart thudded unevenly in his chest again, not out of fear, but for a different reason this time. He didn’t want to put a name to it – wasn’t ready to -

“Fíli.” Sigrid sighed, her voice soft and quiet. “You’re here.”

A broad smile spread across his face when she patted the empty space beside her. “Where else would I be?”

Bard was stood at her bedside, holding a tiny swaddled bundle in his arms. He had never seen the man look so happy. Fíli crossed the room with long, determined strides. The bed had been stripped of its sheets but there was a thick blanket draped across Sigrid’s lap and another wrapped around her shoulders. He hovered at the side of the bed, uncertain, and she rolled her eyes. She reached out, wincing a little at the movement, and grasped his hand, tugging on it until he sat down beside her. Instinctively, he loosely wrapped his arm around her shoulders, telling himself that he was only trying to keep her warm. She surprised him by leaning into his side, her head coming to rest on his shoulder.

“How are you feeling?” He asked, his voice catching.

“Like hell.” She laughed breathlessly. “How did you know to come?”

“Your father sent a raven. A very persistent raven.” Fíli pressed his lips to the crown of her head, his cheeks aching from smiling.

“I didn’t think it was possible to love someone so much, so quickly.” Sigrid whispered, the words soft, meant just for him to hear. He peered down at her and saw that she was watching her father slowly walking the length of the room, cradling her son in his arms. “I thought – I thought that part of me had been lost. But now that I look at him, I know it’s not… So maybe there’s hope after all.”

He lifted his hand, gently brushing her hair away from her eyes. His fingers brushed against her scar; it was silverly now, barely there, and he couldn’t stop himself from leaning forward and pressing his lips against it.

“Are you alright?” She murmured and he almost laughed. _Me?_ He thought incredulously. _After everything, she’s wondering about me…_ “When you walked in here, you – you were so pale. Looked like you’d seen a ghost.”

“I was just worried, that’s all. It’s been a… long night.”

Sigrid hummed. “For you and me both.”

“Do you know what you’re going to call him?” He asked, his voice unsteady.

“I’m not sure, I know I… I know I ought to name him after Bain, to honour him, but I was thinking… that book you gave me - the History of Dale - there was this long chapter about the first Lord of Dale. It said that he built Dale for his people and ruled over an age of peace and prosperity.” Sigrid told him, looking thoughtfully at her son. “His name was Brand.”

“Brand?” Fíli smiled. “That’s a good name. Strong. I’m sure it suits him well.”

“Bain loved history.” Sigrid murmured, a sad note creeping into her voice. “He would’ve loved that book… He always wanted to know about Dale and its people but there was so little Da could tell him. I think he would approve of the name.”

“I’m sure he would have.”

Sigrid lifted her head off of his shoulder, smiling faintly. “Do you want to meet him?”

Before he could respond, she called out for her father. Bard lifted his head and smiled, understanding. He made his way back to them, looking very reluctant to pass the little bundle in his arms back to Sigrid. He’d never held a baby before – not that he could remember – and he was afraid he wouldn’t know how. And then Sigrid was pressing him to Fíli’s arms, causing his heart to thud hard against his ribs.

When Fíli finally looked at Sigrid’s child and held him in his arms, he understood why Bard had been so reluctant to let him go. He was so small and fragile, with dark hair and long eyelashes that cast shadows onto his rosy cheeks.

Aside from his dark hair, he didn’t see any of Edric in the child, only Sigrid.

 _“Madtithbirzul.”_ He murmured, feeling tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. “He’s beautiful.”

And then, very slowly, the baby opened his eyes and looked at him for the first time. Fíli stared down at him, frowning deeply as his stomach twisted into knots. His eyes were blue. Almost Durin blue. For a second, he could almost imagine that –

“His eyes are blue.” Fíli said, refusing to let himself finish that dangerous train of thought.

“Aye,” Bard said. “Most bairns are born with blue eyes. That’ll change.”

Both Sigrid and Edric had grey eyes. Edric’s had been dark like flint, while Sigrid’s were soft like silver, with little flecks of blue. The child’s eyes would be grey. But for now, Fíli could look at him and a little part of him could pretend…

He closed his eyes, cursing his lack of sleep for the strange places his thoughts were taking him.

Neither of them noticed that Sigrid had fallen asleep until the healer cleared her throat.

“The Princess has had a long night. Best let her rest now. You can visit her again tomorrow, after she’s slept.” The healer sternly said, though she looked a little apologetic when she leaned down and carefully prised Brand from his arms. Fíli helplessly stared after her as she carried the child out of the room, feeling like she was taking a little piece of his heart with her.

“I’ll go make up a bed for you.” Bard said, already making his way over to the door.

“There’s no need -” Fíli called after him, keeping his voice as quiet as he could. “Please don’t trouble yourself on my behalf.”

“There’s a blizzard outside, lad. It’s a bloody miracle you made it here at all. Stay the night, we’ve plenty of beds. It’s no trouble.” Bard said, his smile warm and fond. The man was several decades younger than him, yet his eyes were filled with an almost… fatherly affection. “Sigrid won’t thank me if I let you go and freeze to death on your way home.”

Fíli nodded, knowing the man was right, and Bard smiled before he ducked out of the room.

The room was quiet and still, save for Sigrid’s soft, even breaths and the unsteady beating of his heart. He didn’t want to move. He wanted to stay and hold her in his arms for as long as he could. She wouldn’t thank him for it though, not when him staying in her bed could be interpreted in so many ways. Fíli glanced down at Sigrid with a heavy sigh, his lips twisting regretfully. She looked so peaceful, but he wouldn’t be able to move without waking her. As gently as he could, he withdrew his arm from around her shoulders. She stirred, mumbling a little in her sleep as he shifted, trying to lift her head off of his shoulder and onto one of the pillows.

“Fíli.” She murmured, somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“So am I.” He whispered back as he finally managed to pull himself away. Sigrid settled back against the pillows and he pulled the blanket up to her chin. He knew that he should walk away, but he lingered, hesitant. As he watched her, Fíli was suddenly overwhelmed by a single thought:  _I love her._ He reached out, lightly brushing the backs of his fingers across her cheek, realising that all these years, he had been in love with her. He didn’t know how he hadn’t seen, how he hadn’t realised it until now. All that time, it had been right in front of him…

The realisation didn’t scare him as much as it should have.

Mahal’s beard, he loved her so much it hurt. He had never meant for it to happen; he had only ever wanted to be her friend, but there he was, in far deeper than he realised, longing for what could never be his. That quiet pain – which had been his near constant companion since he’d first read Sigrid’s letter telling him she was to be married – was a kind of pain he wouldn’t wish upon anyone, not even his worst enemy – but it was a pain he couldn’t live without, it was as much a part of him as his blood and bones.

 _“Amrâlimê .”_ He sighed, the word falling from his lips before he could even think to stop it.

With that, he forced himself to move. He lumbered to his feet and walked away, shaking his head.

He was a fool. A damned fool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translations for the khuzdul:
> 
> madtithbirzul - little golden heart.
> 
> thanks for reading! <3 <3


	5. absence

**August, TA 2945**

 

“I heard once that it takes a village to raise a child,” Tauriel had told her a week after Brand was born.

And the first six months of her son’s life had proved her right.

Brand was not the first child to be born in Dale over the years, but he was one of the few. And her people had taken to him like bees to honey.

Sigrid had been so tired for the first few weeks, barely able to leave her bed for even a few hours, and her father and Brand had become inseparable in that time. She couldn’t find it within herself to mind; it was nice to see Bard looking so happy.

Once the snows melted and spring truly arrived, her father had taken to taking Brand with him on his business in the Great Hall, always accumulating quite a gathering of people. Sigrid hadn’t believed him at first, not until she’d seen it with her own eyes. She’d laughed as she watched business Great Hall grind to a halt as almost everyone rushed over to say hello to the little prince.

Her home was always busy with visitors as well, not so much interested in seeing her, but her son. If Tauriel wasn’t popping over to visit, it was Hilda, or Percy and his family. Most of them shooed her away, letting her catch up on whatever business she had set aside, giving her a few hours of reprieve. It was nice; she hadn’t thought she’d ever miss going over the accounts.

There was only one person who hadn’t visited her as much as she might have liked.

She hadn’t seen much of Fíli since Brand was born and she missed her friend terribly. He was a Prince – the heir to the throne – and she understood that that would be sufficiently time consuming, but he had never struggled to make time for her in the past. She could count on her hand the amount of times she had seen him since Brand was born. Kíli was always suspiciously tight-lipped about it whenever she brought it up, leaving her to worry whether she’d done something wrong, if she’d upset him somehow.  

The last time she had seen him, it had been just for a moment in the middle of May. She had ridden out to Erebor to collect some documents for her father. Sigird had spotted him while she was in the atrium, struggling to keep up with Gloin and Balin as they argued heatedly about the state of the treasury. Fíli had walked in with his uncle and paused when he caught sight of her. She had smiled and waved, expecting him to come over and talk to her, but instead Fíli had looked away like he hadn’t noticed her and continued on his way. To say it had hurt would be an understatement. She convinced herself that he hadn’t seen her. He was busy, that was all.

But when her birthday came and passed with only a brief letter from him, Sigrid knew that something was wrong.

Every year, Fíli visited on her birthday. Every year since she had known him they had done something together, just the two of them. That year, when Fíli’s letter arrived, formally wishing her a happy birthday and sending his regrets that he wouldn’t be able to see her, she hadn’t been in the mood for celebrating.

A fortnight after her birthday, after stewing on it, she decided to do something about it.

She hadn’t been able to tear herself away in the morning, her father was in meetings and wasn’t able to take over looking after Brand for her until noon. And Brand – who was ordinarily such a sweet thing, who so reminded her of Bain that it was almost frightening – had been unusually fussy that morning, as if in response to her distress. It had taken her a few weeks to stop herself from crying a little whenever he did, but that morning, a few stray tears slipped out when he wouldn’t stop bawling his eyes out and refused to settle.

Three months after Brand was born, when she’d become a little too overwhelmed with the strange new path she was walking on, she had written to some of the other mothers in Dale. Their advice had done her a world of good. She tried to remember their advice in that moment, when she slumped back down on her armchair with Brand squirming and wailing on her lap. He was teething, and she didn’t know what to do. Hilda had suggested rubbing a little bit of rum on his gums and given her a bottle free of charge. Sigrid was tempted to drink it herself.

In spite of the constant flow of visitors, Sigrid was lonely. She missed her friend.

She had thought, after losing Bain and Tilda, that her heart had shattered into a thousand pieces and there was to be no mending it. Once the healers had no longer needed her assistance, she had felt like a ghost, drifting from place to place, without a reason or a purpose. Until Fíli had turned up at her door one day, a bright smile on his face and a wicker basket tucked under his arm, offering to take her on a picnic. She had smiled for perhaps the first time in months that day.

She gently carded her fingers through Brand’s dark hair, trying to fight back tears.

“Shh, love, it’s alright.” Sigrid murmured, bouncing him a little on her knee. It didn’t do the trick like it normally did. “Mama’s here.”

During the hellish hours of labour, Sigrid had wished that Fíli was there to hold her hand. The healers had been kind; they pretended not to notice when she cried out for him. And then when it was all over, there he was, walking through the door when she needed him most. She’d been so happy to see him, so relieved – Sigrid would give anything to look up now and see him standing there again.

She broke into sobs at the thought. She bowed her head and tears streaked stubbornly down her cheeks. She pressed her hand to her mouth, trying to quieten the sound, and didn’t notice that Brand had fallen quiet until he twisted on her lap, lifting his head to look at her. A sob caught in her throat. His big grey eyes met hers, looking so confused that she was sure she could feel her heart tearing in two. He was so young, he wouldn’t be able to understand. He shouldn’t have to see her like that -

“Mama.” He suddenly said, reaching up towards her face with his chubby little hands.

It was his first word. He’d babbled nonsense and made little noises for weeks now, but he’d never truly spoken. Not until now. A happy, startled sob escaped her lips, and she smiled through her tears. She caught his hands, pressing kisses to them, sending him into a fit of giggles. Downstairs, she heard the front door opening and she laughed, tears running down her cheeks, but for different reasons that time.

“Managed to get home early, damn council meetings are -” Bard was saying as he walked into the room, stopping suddenly when he saw the two of them. They must have looked quite a sight. Bard lowered the letters he’d been holding and frowned, warily stepping into the room, like he didn’t know what he was walking in to. “Is everything alright, love?”

“He spoke, Da! He _spoke._ ” She laughed through her tears. “He said ‘mama’.”

As if in response, Brand said the word again, beaming up at her.

“That was your first word as well.” Bard said, looking close to tears himself. “But you didn’t speak ‘til you were almost one.”

Looking down at Brand, it amazed her that she’d once feared she wouldn’t be able to love him. Her heart was so full of love, it sometimes scared her. She had thought that part of her was gone, lost with Bain and Tilda, but everything she’d thought she’d known had been thrown out of the window the day Brand was born. She caught sight of little bits of Edric every now and again, in his dark hair and the shape of his brow, but mostly she saw Bain. It didn’t hurt as much as she thought it might, seeing the mirror image of her little brother in her son. Bard walked over and placed his hand on her shoulder, squeezing it comfortingly. She knew he saw Bain in him too.

“Have you given any more thought to what we talked about?” Bard asked, once Brand had finally settled and was sleeping soundly in his cot.

“A little.” She hummed, trailing her finger down Brand’s rosy cheek. It seemed even without Edric around, whether she liked it or not, she would still find herself acquiring a governess. Well, a nursemaid, to be specific. Work was always available on the reconstruction of the city, and on the outer farmers, and in the marketplace, but there were some who didn’t fit into those roles. A few had written to her, asking to work in her and her father’s household. And while she wasn’t one to deny her people anything, she was hesitant. “Give me their names and I’ll meet with them. I’m not promising anything, but I’ll… I’ll consider it.”

Bard smiled, looking pleased with her answer. “Are you still planning on seeing Fíli today?”

“I… I don’t know.” She replied, watching Brand’s eyelashes flutter in his sleep.

“You should. I know how much you’ve missed him.” Bard said, loosely wrapping his arm around her shoulders.

“I don’t know if he wants to see me, Da.” She sighed despairingly, leaning into his side. She wondered if she’d depended upon him too much, if she’d taken advantage of his good nature. Fíli’s sole purpose in life wasn’t to make her smile, he had a life of his own to lead. “He doesn’t visit anymore - I don’t know, Da. Something feels wrong… I don’t know what I did, but whatever it was…”

“Believe me, darling, I’ve seen the way he looks at you… Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s not of your doing. Maybe – maybe he’s giving you some space, letting you focus your attention on Brand.”

She sighed, supposing she saw the sense in his words.

“I’ll – I’ll go change and then I’ll go see him.” She said, forcing herself to smile. “Will you be alright to look after Brand?”

“Of course, love.” Bard smiled affectionately down at Brand. “Say hello to Fíli for me.”

Sigrid kissed his cheek and walked next door into her room. She felt like a mess and longed for a good, long bath. Later, she decided, after she had talked things through Fíli. She settled for splashing her face with cold water and dragging a comb through her messy hair so she wouldn’t have time to chicken out. She changed her dress into one that didn’t have mushed up carrot staining the sleeve and quickly braided her hair before she left. Her father was still looking at Brand with a ridiculously soppy smile on his face when she left the house.

She chose to walk, not quite dressed for riding, and smiled at the feeling of the sun on her face as she walked through the city. The road between Dale and Erebor was busy with people and merchants transporting goods back and forth. It never failed to amaze her how different the land between the city and the mountain looked, as opposed to how barren and desolate it had been before. It was easy to forget, with all trees and grass and wildflowers, how just many people had died on that ground during the battle.

She shook her head, not allowing her thoughts to drift to that dark place. It was a lovely day; there wasn’t a cloud in the sky and the sun was warm on her face, the day was too beautiful to be darkened by thinking about the past. She carried on, refusing to let herself think about blood and battles and healing tents. People smiled at her as she passed, and a couple of the guards recognised her and waved as she passed through the gates. It was surprising, the welcome she always received in Erebor. When people spoke about Dwarves, they always coloured them as such suspicious and secretive people, but they weren’t. Almost every Dwarf she had met was kind and friendly and good natured. Nothing like how she had once imagined.

It was by some good fortune that she ran into Dain, as she soon realised once she entered the kingdom that she had no idea where to start looking for Fíli. Dain Ironfoot walked into the long atrium at the same time she did, his face breaking out into a smile when he saw her. Dain was an interesting character, far friendlier than his cousin, King Thorin. He visited them in Dale from time to time, preferring – much like her father - to discuss business over dinner rather than in a stuffy meeting hall.

“Sigrid!” His voice boomed throughout the atrium. Some of the other Dwarves milling around in the hall looked around at the sound of his voice, startled. Dain moved surprisingly fast for a short legged man with one metal foot. “It’s good to see you, lass!”

“It’s good to see you too.” She smiled back. “How are you? I trust your journey back from the Iron Hills was uneventful?”

“Och, it was uneventful alright. No sign of even a wolf to give us trouble.” Dain grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest. _Dwarves,_ she thought, rolling her eyes. _Always looking for trouble_. “How’s that bonny wee lad of yours, eh?”

A slow smile spread across her face. “He’s very well, thank you. He actually spoke today, for the first time.”

“Already? What a bright wee thing.” Dain beamed, clapping her over the shoulder. “Took my Thorin over a year to speak. First words he said were _yes_ and _no._ That’s all he ever said for _months_ , could never tell what the little bugger wanted. Drove his mother mad. So what brings you to Erebor on this fine afternoon? If you’re here to see me, ‘fraid you’ve come at a bad time, have a meeting with my blasted cousin in ten minutes.”

“I’m hoping to find Fíli. You wouldn’t happen to know where he is, would you?”

“Ah, that’ll do the lad some good. He’s been mopeier than Thorin lately. The last I checked he was down in the forge. I can take you there, if you like. It’s a bit of a maze this place, wouldn’t want you getting lost.” Dain said and she smiled gratefully, thanking him. Without another word, the Dwarf Lord gestured for her to follow and walked off in the direction of a set of stairs.

Everything in Erebor looked so similar, she didn’t know how any of them found their way around. It was all stone walls, pillars, and tapestries of angry looking Dwarves fighting something or other. Dain groused sullenly as he lead her through the kingdom, bemoaning the long council meetings Thorin insisted on dragging him to. She had to laugh when he described Thorin as _a broody sod,_ never having heard such an apt description of the Dwarf King.

Eventually, they rounded possibly the hundredth corner and at the end of the long corridor was an open archway. Flickering candlelight was streaming through the large, rounded doorway and the sound of metal clanging on metal echoed off of the stone walls. They were in the right place, it seemed. Dain left her there, regretful that he had to hurry off to his meeting, and called over his shoulder to her that he’d let the guards stationed nearby know she was there, so that they could help her find her way out. Erebor truly was like a maze, Sigrid would need to leave a trail of breadcrumbs behind her if she ever wanted to find her way out on her own

Sigrid smoothed her hands down the front of her dress, nerves fluttering in the pit of her stomach as she listened to Dain’s footsteps growing more and more distant and the hammering growing ever louder. She told herself as she approached the large, open doorway that she had nothing to fear; Fíli was her friend – her _dearest friend –_ and he’d never turn her away. She had never had many friends, especially none as close to her heart as Fíli. She didn’t know what she would do without him.

She blinked against the heat and the steam as she cautiously ventured inside. She had never been inside of a forge before, there hadn’t been much need of a smith in Laketown, but it was smaller than she had imagined. The air was hot and filled with the smell of smoke. There was only one Dwarf working in the room, hunched over a table, hammering away at a red-hot piece of metal.

“Fíli.” She called, proud that her voice somehow remained steady.

He looked up sharply, his eyes widening in alarm. “Sigrid? What in Durin’s name are you doing here?”

“I need to talk to you.” She said, clasping her hands together to disguise the slight tremor in her fingers.

“Is there something wrong? With your father? Or Brand?” She tried to be angry with him – for him assuming there had to be something wrong for her to want to speak to him – but the open concern in his eyes was sincere. She shook her head and he seemed to sigh in relief before he turned away from her. He plunged the red-hot piece of metal he’d been working on into a deep trough of water, steam rising up with a hiss. He kept his back to her as he pulled the metal from the water and set it down beside his hammer.

“Why are you here, Sigrid?” He asked as he turned around to face her. His tone was hard, but there was a weary edge to it that didn’t go unnoticed. He pushed his hair back away from his face and spread a line of soot across his sweaty forehead.

“I told you,” she scowled. “I need to talk to you.”

A dark expression settled over his features. “Why?”

“I’ve barely seen you in months and you want to know _why_ I want to talk to you? You’re unbelievable, you know that?” She nearly shouted back, blinking in disbelief. Fíli just shrugged, his jaw set. The smoke in the air was hurting her eyes, she blamed it for the sudden prick of tears in her eyes. “I’m just – I’m a little confused, Fíli.”

He stared at her for a long moment, unflinching. “About what?”

“About – about _what?_ For goodness sake, Fíli, I just want to know _why._ Something has happened – that’s not a figment of my imagination. You don’t visit anymore. You barely write. And now you’re acting like – like… I don’t know what I did to upset you, but –”

“You didn’t do anything,” Fíli interrupted, huffing in exasperation. “I’ve been busy. It’s time consuming, being the heir to a kingdom you don’t want. Surely you must understand that more than anyone.”

“You always found the time before. So what’s changed?”

Fíli didn’t answer. He looked down at the ground, looking very determined not to look at her. She pursed her lips, blinking hard against the tears gathering in her eyes. “I must’ve done something. It’s the only explanation I can think of.”

His gaze flashed to her. “Think again.”

“So tell me!” She exclaimed, stalking forward until there was just a workbench between them. The bench was like a barrier between them, but even so, he drew away and crossed his arms over his chest. “Whatever it is, just tell me.”

“I’m sorry I missed your birthday, if that’s what this is about.” Fíli said, his gaze returning to the floor. “I got you a present. It’s in my room.”

“That’s what you think this about? You think I’m upset because you didn’t get me a bloody birthday present?” She cried but it was like talking to a brick wall. Fíli looked away, his jaw clenching tightly, and she wanted to hit him. She barely recognised the Dwarf standing in front of her. “I… I understand that you’re busy and that things have changed since Brand was born, but you’re my best friend, Fíli. I’ve missed you.”

Fíli closed his eyes, his indifferent mask being to crack.

He laughed quietly, bitterly. “Not half as much as I missed you.”

“Then why…?” She stared at him, lost.

 _“Amrâlimê.”_ Fíli sighed. The unfamiliar word was soft; it didn’t sound like an insult but he didn’t look like he liked saying it either. He looked like he was pained by it. “That’s not - none of this is your doing, Sigrid. I know how it must look but I have been busy. That wasn’t a lie. There’s been some unrest and the treasury was broken into and Dwalin’s been making us train almost every day in case of more attacks on the road, but mostly I’ve been making preparations for my journey to Mirkwood...”

“Mirkwood?” She echoed. “Why are you going to Mirkwood?”

“Bilbo has decided to visit the Elves.” He said, still refusing to look at her. “I don’t know why he wants to go, but Thorin gave Kíli and I permission to escort him there. We’ll be leaving in three days, won’t be long. We should be back in a month or so.”

“You’re leaving again.” Her voice was a small, hollow thing. “Were you going to tell me?”

Fíli’s silence spoke a thousand words. He didn’t even do the courtesy of looking at her; he continued to glare down at the ground like his boots were the most interesting thing in the world. She sighed, wondering if throwing a hammer at his head would be a better way at getting through to him. He was always telling her how thick Dwarves’ skulls were. She turned away instead, closing her eyes against the unwanted tears gathering in her eyes. She didn’t need this. She’d come to Erebor looking for her friend, and evidently she hadn’t found him.

“Right.” She said, her voice wavering only a little. “That’s that then. I – I guess I’ll see you when you get back.”

“I suppose I ought to say congratulations now,” he called after her. “Y’know, in case you get married again while I’m gone.”

She had meant to walk away. She was going to walk away. But then he went and said _that._

Sigrid whirled around to face him, eyes narrowing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Forget I said anything.” Fíli muttered, frowning to himself. When she sighed and started to turn away again, he lifted his head and looked at her at long last. Whatever expression he saw on her face made him sigh and shake his head. “Forgive me, I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t have said any of that. Things have been difficult around here lately but it’s – it’s not fair to take it out on you. It’s not an excuse, but -”

“No. It’s not.” She said curtly, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I’m sorry.” Fíli sighed, bowing his head. “Truly - I’m sorry, Sigrid. I need you to know - I would’ve come to see you sooner, to let you know I was leaving, but I don’t _want_ to leave and I thought seeing you might make me…”

“Make you what?” She asked when he trailed off, his eyes guarded.

“Everything’s so much better when I’m with you, it makes it hard for me to walk away.” Fíli lifted his hand to rub the nape of his head, his expression growing almost sheepish, like he had confessed something he shouldn’t. As if she didn’t feel the exact same way. Sigrid’s brows furrowed in confusion and Fíli’s eyes flickered away. “I should probably take you back to the gates. I’m sure Brand is missing his mother.”

“Brand.” She echoed, feeling a ghost of a smile tug at the corners of her lips. “He talked today.”

Fíli blinked in surprise. “He did? What did he say?”

“He asked me why his favourite uncle hasn’t visited him.” She said, satisfied when – ­ _finally –_ he looked a little guilty. Brand had been taken with Fíli from the moment he had met him. Not once had he cried or fussed when Fíli held him, and on the rare occasion that Fíli visited them, Brand’s eyes always seemed to light up when he saw him. “Come see him, won’t you? When you have the time, I mean.”

“I always have time for you, Sigrid.” His eyes flickered to her, soft and filled with warmth, making him look more like the Fíli she knew than the bitter stranger who had stood before her moments ago. “I know – I know I’ve not been there for you, and I’m sorry – I’m so very sorry – I’ll make it up to you, I swear it. I’ll -”

“So you’ll come?” She gently cut in, the Dwarf already forgiven.

“Tomorrow.” Fíli eventually said, leading her out of the forge. “I’ll have time tomorrow.”

Sigrid couldn’t help but smile. “Tomorrow it is then.”

 

* * *

 

Sigrid woke up the next morning from a dreamless sleep, feeling like a weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

She didn’t mind that it was just after dawn and that Brand’s cries had woken her up. She walked through into his room in her nightgown, smiling a little to herself. Brand didn’t quite share her feelings; he wailed and squirmed when she picked him up, always grumpy in the mornings when he was hungry.

She kissed the crown of his head, where little tufts of dark hair were sticking up, and sat down on the rocking chair beside his crib. She hummed an old fishing song quietly, running her fingers through his hair while he nursed.

“You’re going to see your Uncle Fíli today. Can you say ‘Fíli’, darling?” She murmured later, as she dressed him for the day. Brand tugged on a loose strand of her hair in response, making little cooing noises. She laughed, tapping his little button nose. “Close enough, my sweet.”

Her morning passed the same way it usually did; she tried to coax Brand into eating solid food and ended up wearing half of it, she bathed and dressed while her father took Brand to his council meetings, and then she went over the accounts while her living room was occupied by a number of visitors. The only difference was the stack of letters waiting for her on her desk, all letters from those wishing to work as Brand’s governess. There was a knock on the door just after noon, not long after Percy and his wife had left after spending almost an hour playing with Brand and entertaining him with their silly noises and impressions.

Fíli was bouncing on the balls of his feet when she opened the door and before she could even say ‘hello’, he produced a fistful of beautiful purple flowers from behind his back.

“Oh,” she murmured when he awkwardly pressed the flowers into her hands, surprised. No one had ever given her flowers before. “Thank you. They’re beautiful. What kind of flowers are these? I don’t think I’ve ever seen them before.”

Fíli ducked his head, looking embarrassed. “Violets. Bilbo picked them, said they have a special meaning. He didn’t say what though.”

“I should put these in some water.” She mumbled, her cheeks feeling oddly warm all of a sudden. “Brand’s in his cot in the living room.”

Even from the kitchen, she could hear the delighted noise Brand made when he saw Fíli. _Some things never change,_ she thought to herself, smiling as she placed the violets in a tall vase and filled it with water. She set the flowers down on the kitchen counter and pressed the backs of her cold fingers to her cheeks, trying to bring down her sudden flush. She wandered back into the living room, wondering if she was coming down with something. The thought was immediately forgotten when she laid eyes on Fíli and Brand. Brand was sat on his lap, giggling and cooing as he pawed at Fíli’s braided moustache.

It tugged at her heart, seeing the two of them together. Brand always looked so happy when Fíli was around, like he thought –

“I can’t stay long I’m afraid.” Fíli told her and she tried not to let her disappointment show. She sat beside him on the couch, focusing her attention on Brand’s happy little smile instead of thinking about how much she’d miss Fíli when he was gone. Brand’s grey eyes were so bright – so like Tilda’s – it still scared her sometimes, how much he reminded her of her brother and sister. “He’s grown so much. I can’t believe he’s crawling already. And to think, the last time I saw him he couldn’t even sit up on his own…”

Fíli blinked, frowning a little when he looked down at Brand. “I’ve missed so much…”

“You’re here now,” she smiled faintly. “That’s all that matters.”

The stack of letters were sat on the armchair opposite them. She’d forgotten that she had moved them there, expecting to go through them while Percy and his wife were there. The blasted accounts had taken longer than she expected, what with some idiot on the council messing up the numbers. Fíli noticed them and glanced back at her with a question in his eyes.

“It seems I must choose a governess for Brand.” She explained, standing up to retrieve the letters. She untied the string holding them together and unfolded the first letter, sighing quietly. She didn’t recognise the name written at the top of the letter and read on, pouting as she sat back down on the couch. “Whether I like it or not…”

“Why?” Fíli frowned, gently nudging her with his elbow. “I mean, do you even _want_ a governess?”

“It’s not that simple. If I could, I’d spend all my time with him but…”

Fíli cocked his brow. “But?”

“There are things I need to do. Responsibilities I can’t ignore.” She told him as she started reading the second letter, squinting as she tried to read the cramped, spidery handwriting. She recognised the name, the girl was a few years older than her. She had been a maid in the Master’s household. “It would be a fine position for a young woman. The sort I’d be selfish to withhold.” She set the letter down, sighing. “A part of me hates the idea, feels like I’m letting Brand down somehow, but I can’t deny that it would be nice having some help.”

The third letter was more promising. She didn’t recognise the name, but the tone of the letter was friendly and warm, rather than ridiculously formal. The young woman was the oldest of four siblings and a widow. She had been a maid in the Master’s household as well, the poor thing. The thought of the Master still made her shudder a little. _Elodie,_ she thought, mentally storing the name away for later.

“Do – do you ever think about marrying again?” Fíli asked, the question catching her off-guard. “If Brand had a father then it might…”

She blinked at him, bewildered by the sudden change in direction of the conversation, and then frowned, having never really thought about remarrying before. It was the last thing she had expected Fíli to ask, even after the odd comment he had made the day before. Her father’s council made no secret out of the fact that it would be greatly beneficial for the city, should she find another eligible suitor. They had a list somewhere, she was sure. She didn’t receive any more letters, although she suspected she did, and that her father just hid them from her.

“No, not really…” Her last few months with Edric had been difficult. She still felt a stab of guilt sometimes, when she thought of how a small part of her had been relieved when she learned of his death. Guilt and shame had eaten away at her over how – just for a moment - she had seen his death as freeing her from a marriage she no longer wanted… “I don’t think so. If – if I married again, it couldn’t be like it was with Edric. It would have to be different. It would… it would have to be…”

She trailed off, struggling to find the right words, and Fíli lifted his head. He looked at her with a sad little smile she couldn’t bear to look at. She didn’t deserve his sympathy; she wasn’t a grieving widow, she had no right to be treated like one. Though she couldn’t regret marrying Edric, not when it had given her Brand, marriage had been a cage she wasn’t sure she ever wanted to walk back into.

“It would have to be for love?” Fíli supposed.

“You are too much a romantic, I think.” She mused, avoiding the question.

“Perhaps.” He smiled ruefully.

“Would you – I mean, have you ever thought about getting married?” It left an oddly bitter taste in her mouth, thinking about Fíli being married. She could almost picture it – some regal Dwarrowdam from a long line of wealth and nobility, covered from head to toe in jewels, smiling beatifically by Fíli’s side.

Fíli hummed, not quite meeting her gaze. “It would take a rare woman to get me to settle down.”

As if sensing her unease, Brand tipped his head back and grabby hands at her. She set aside her letters and carefully pulled him onto her lap. Brand immediately pressed his neck into the crook of her neck, making soft little noises. Even if she remarried, Brand would never know his real father, the same way Tilda never had the chance to know their mother. Sigrid didn’t have years’ worth of stories to tell Brand once he was older; she couldn’t paint a vivid picture of the man his father had been, but at least Edric’s knights would never let his memory die.

“Your suitors will be disappointed. There’s a great many of them. Or so I’ve heard.”

“It’s Dale they want.” She murmured, looking back at Fíli. “Not me.”

Fíli looked at her for a long moment, eyes slightly narrowed, searching her face for something. If she married again, there were so many risks and Sigrid wasn’t sure she would ever be ready to take that kind of plunge again. Love wasn’t something she could imagine for herself, but she couldn’t always let her head dictate her heart. She had to think about Brand and the kind of man she was bringing into his life. If she married again, that might be the only father her son would ever know.

“If your Uncle asked it of you, would you marry for the sake of your people? Even if it meant choosing duty over love?” She wondered. _The way I did,_ she almost added, needing to know what he would do if he was in her position. Fíli looked away from her, jaw clenching as he thought about it for a long moment.

“No,” he eventually decided. “I wouldn’t. Some things… some things are more important than our duty.”

He sounded so sure. She envied his certainty. “If I had my way,” he continued, his eyes growing distant. “I’d choose a simpler life. Where I could be who I wished and marry for love. I wouldn’t be my Uncle’s heir to a Kingdom cursed with madness. I think… I think I’d be a smith. I have no great love for riches nor desire for power. Making weapons and fixing horseshoes suits me well…”

“You can have that.” Sigrid told him, her throat uncomfortably tight. “Whoever said you couldn’t?”

“Everyone.” Fíli smiled faintly, a gleam of mischief replacing the sadness in his deep blue eyes. “But when have I ever listened, eh?”

Upstairs, the grandfather clock chimed. The sound seemed impossibly loud. Fíli’s gaze flickered in its direction, staring up at the ceiling for a long moment. She thought she heard sigh softly before he slowly stood, offering her his hand. Brand was heavy, already fast asleep with his face pressed into the crook of her neck, his hands curled in loose fists against her shoulder. She curled her arm around him, settling him onto her hip, before she took Fíli’s hand and stood.

“I ought to get going.” Fíli said, lips twisting ruefully as he let go of her hand.

She walked him to the door, more reluctant than ever to see him go. A journey to Mirkwood and back shouldn’t be something to concern herself with, Thranduil and his Elves made the journey every few months and always arrived unscathed. Only, there was a little voice in the back of her head that whispered Edric had only been patrolling the roads a few miles from the city and he had been killed.

“I’ll write – to let you know we’ve arrived safely.” Fíli said, as if he had read her thoughts.

Before she could stop herself, she leaned down and kissed the corner of his mouth. Fíli tensed, remaining very still. Later, she would tell herself she had aimed for his cheek and missed. Later, she would tell herself she hadn’t lingered with her lips pressed very nearly against his.

“Take care.” She whispered as she drew away from him, swallowing hard against the lump in her throat. “Come back soon.”

“Aye,” he said, his voice rough, “that I’ll do.”

With that, he turned and walked away, his back straight and shoulders squared. She watched him from the doorway, waiting for the moment when he looked back.

Fíli waited until just before the cobblestone street veered to the left to look back at her. She felt a slow smile spread across her face and the corners of his lips tugged up in a grin before he kept walking, passing out of sight. She lifted her hand, pressed her fingers to her lips, and walked back into the house, smiling to herself.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've been considering bumping up the rating and trying my hand at something a little smuttier, but i'm not 100% sure. what do you guys think? anyway - thanks for reading, i've really been blown away with all the love and support from you guys. it really means the world to me <3


	6. silver and gold

**March, TA 2946**

 

Kíli’s promised five months were running out slowly, but surely.

Not even Thorin could deny that winter had truly passed. The land that stretched between Erebor and Dale was awash with colour; the trees green with leaves, the grass thick, and the ground covered with wildflowers. The river was flowing freely past Ravenhill again, only the very peak of the mountain remained covered in snow and ice. Bilbo had been humming for days, over the moon that the little garden he kept was steadily returning to life. Every day there was a different flower tucked in the lapel of his waistcoat.

It was King Bard’s birthday and Fíli was deep in his cups.

That night Bilbo had a violet adorning his jacket, the deep purple petals standing out against his pale blue waistcoat. It was an uncomfortable reminder. _Violets mean a great deal,_ the Hobbit had said months before with an infernally knowing look on his face, _but what they might mean to you, my lad, is for you to find out_.

Balin was in front of him, speaking gravely about something or other - but Fíli’s thoughts were elsewhere. On the one hand, he was troubled - they were running out of time and Thorin, it seemed, still had not found a solution to their little dilemma – while another part of him was becoming increasingly distracted by Sigrid, who he hadn’t seen much of that evening and who he could now see out of the corner of his eye.

Sigrid was talking to a man on the other side of the room and that bothered him endlessly. Percy and his wife were stood beside her, but Fíli barely noticed them. The man had his back to him, so he couldn’t see his face, but he could clearly see the hand he had rested on Sigrid’s shoulder. It chafed something deep inside of him, seeing her laugh and allow a man to touch her so freely.

Someone jostled past him, sloshing mead over his boots, startling him.

“…and it’s not the end of the world, laddie. There’s things worse than being King.” Balin was saying, not slurring yet, but his voice was thick with drink. A more sober Balin would’ve noticed his inattention. “Even if your brother is removed as one of Thorin’s heirs, doesn’t necessarily mean he must be banished. Doesn’t mean you’ve got to follow him.”

“Aye, Balin. It does.” He said through clenched teeth. It was a conversation they’d had a hundred times. They had been talking and talking in circles over the past few months, getting nowhere. Thorin had understood his mother’s reasoning for remaining in Ered Luin; she had no desire to return to a place she no longer saw as home and be someone she was not. She had not been _Princess Dis_ in centuries. Fíli didn’t see how he was any different. He had been born a prince in name only, it was how he wished he could remain. “I was never meant for this life.”

His gaze shifted to Sigrid, longing tugging at his heart.

“I know, lad.” Balin smiled a bittersweet smile. “But it’s not a decision made lightly.”

Fíli sighed, wearily running his hand down his face. “I _know,_ Balin, I know.”

Duty was a strange thing. It asked so much. He had always known he might be King someday, should Erebor ever be reclaimed, but it wasn’t a life he had ever expected for himself. He had been a smith in Ered Luin, a hired sword, and even a musician after a few too many pints, and that was the life he had expected to lead until he was old and grey. Fíli and Kíli had joined the Company out of love for their uncle and a thirst for adventure. Duty hadn’t played into it the same way it had for the others.

Erebor hadn’t been home, it had been something out of a story. A fantasy. He never thought it would become a reality. Not truly.

“There are more important things than duty.” Death had a funny way of making you look at things differently. Again, his gaze turned to Sigrid, his heart stirring. His head was fuzzy with drink but he saw her clearly. She was somehow his one constant while the rest of the room spun. Mahal save him, she was so beautiful. She deserved far, far more than he, or any other man, could give her. She deserved the world. “Sometimes…   sometimes we must follow our hearts, no matter where they may take us.”

Fíli threw back the rest of his mead and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He needed another drink.

Dale’s Great Hall was crammed full of Men, Dwarves, and Elves alike. There was music playing, a merry band playing fiddles and violins, and he had to wade through people dancing in the centre of the cramped hall. King Bard was stood talking with Thranduil by the doors leading out to the terrace, the man’s head thrown back in laughter. Fíli’s lip twitched. He couldn’t imagine anything remotely humorous coming out of Thranduil’s mouth. But stranger things had happened.

Balin was still where he left him when he returned with another drink, the older Dwarf staring thoughtfully into space. Sigrid was still stood with the same man, his hand – mercifully – no longer resting on her shoulder. Percy and his wife weren’t there anymore, the two of them were left together, talking – talking about what?

Fíli’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, unable to help it. He had never been very good at not looking at her; one way or another she always drew his gaze back. She looked so happy, her eyes lit up with her smile. There was nothing haunted about her, no cloud of grief hanging over her tonight. As much as he hated any man who stole even a moment of her attention, who was he to pull her away from someone who made her smile like that?

Balin frowned slightly, following his gaze. “You know… I do believe there was once a clan leader who threw off his title to marry another head of a clan. One of the Firebeards, long ago. Couldn’t be the head of two clans.” Balin’s eyes saw too much, they were far too knowing for the old Dwarf’s good. “Something to think about, lad.”

Maybe it was the mead. Maybe it was his desperation to find _any_ feasible solution to his problem. Maybe it was the fact that even months later, he couldn’t get the feeling of Sigrid’s lips against the corner of his out of his head. Whatever it was, Fíli found himself grinning and clapping Balin over the shoulder.

“Balin, you’re a genius!”

“Now’s probably not the best time to -” Balin started to say but Fíli was already walking off, downing the rest of his mead.

She looked so beautiful with her long hair loose around her shoulders and in a deep blue dress he’d never seen before. Almost Durin blue. She smiled when she saw him, her eyes brightening. His heart stumbled, cursed with falling a little bit more in love with her every time she smiled. And Mahal save him, she smiled so often now. He still remembered a time when getting her to smile even a little bit was a challenge. He still saw it every now and again – that glimmer of sadness that he wasn’t sure would ever truly go away. But she had come so far, had dragged herself out of despair. He wasn’t sure he could do the same, had his losses been as great as hers.

She was strong, his Sigrid. Stronger than anyone he had ever met.

The man stood with her smiled when he followed her gaze. It was a strangely knowing smile, almost smug, but Fíli barely noticed. The man leaned in close, whispered something into Sigrid’s ear as he approached, making her flush. That made him falter, his feet stumbling over nothing.

Sigrid touched the man’s arm again, flushing prettily, and something ugly flared inside of him.

Fíli grit his teeth, overcome with the sudden urge to kiss her, right there, in front of everyone. It wasn’t the first time he’d thought about kissing her – the idea - no, the _need –_ had plagued him for months now. But this was different. He wanted to steal her away from the man. He wanted to make everyone knew that she was _his._ The thought – and the intensity of it – nearly made him stumble. Dwarves were greedy, Dwarves were jealous, Dwarves were _possessive_ – it was what he had always been told but had never thought about himself until that moment.

He pushed the thoughts aside, fearful that she could somehow read them on his face, and plastered on a wide smile.

“Sigrid!” He exclaimed, reaching out to take her hand. He wouldn’t have dared if he were sober, taking her hand wasn’t something he would do without cause, but her fingers curled around his at once, warming his chest. “I must speak with you. It’s important.”

“Now?” Sigrid laughed and glanced at the man stood with her when Fíli didn’t laugh along with her. Her expression softened and she touched the man’s shoulder with her free hand. Fíli felt the same flare of displeasure at the sight but shoved the feeling away, focusing on how the candlelight brought out the gold in her hair instead. “Alright, if you say it’s important. I’m sorry, Mathias, will you excuse us?”

The man – _Mathias –_ nodded. “Of course, go ahead.”

Tugging on her hand, Sigrid let him lead her away from Mathias and out of the hall. It was too loud in there, too many people. She didn’t protest. She didn’t seem to mind leaving the party early. Sigrid grabbed her cloak from where it was hung up by the door and shrugged it on as he stepped outside. The cold air outside was refreshing, it helped clear his head.

He didn’t let go of her hand. If Sigrid noticed, or minded, she didn’t comment on it. She followed him out into the cold, their hands swinging between them as they walked across the courtyard. He wanted to tell her there and then – it would be romantic, in the moonlight, under the night’s sky – but the walk wasn’t long enough. It was over before he had gathered the courage to speak.

“I should let Elodie know I’m back.” Sigrid said once they reached her house, her hand slipping out of his. “It would be a shame if she missed the party.”

Fíli’s eyes followed her as she hung up her cloak and made her way up the stairs. He remained where he was, feet glued to the spot, his heart hammering like a war drum in his chest. He could hear her voice, quiet and muffled as it drifted down to him, as she spoke with Elodie, the sweet young woman who had started working for the household a few months back.

Elodie smiled at him when she spotted him from the top of the stairs, wishing him a nice evening before she left the house.

Sigrid wasn’t gone long. She walked back down the stairs to him with a small smile playing on her lips, wearing an old cardigan and tan breeches. He had thought her beautiful before – but he loved her like this, hair slightly tousled, in a holey old cardigan, with a soft smile on her face that he alone got to see.

It always did strange things to his heart, seeing her like that. And suddenly, inexplicably, he was hit with a desperate, yearning, _impossible_ desire. He wanted – more than he had ever wanted anything - the sight to be the last thing he saw before he went to sleep and the first thing he laid eyes on every morning.

He wanted – Mahal save him, he wanted _everything_.

“Brand’s asleep. He’s finally back onto a normal schedule.” She told him, smiling. He hadn’t known that about Brand. Just one more thing he’d missed. “So, what did you need to speak with me so urgently about?

“I – well, hm.” Where did he begin?

“Maybe we should sit down.” Sigrid said, her lips quirking up in amusement. “You’re swaying a little.”

He followed her through into the living room, thinking on what he might say.

“Would you like something to drink? I can put the kettle on, if you’d like.” Sigrid offered but he shook his head.

“Actually – on second thought, got anything stronger?”

Sigrid smiled slightly, arching one brow. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea – but oh, why not? It’s been a while since we’ve had a drink together and you haven’t told me about your trip yet.”

“Not much to tell.” He shrugged. And there wasn’t. Kíli had accused him of moping the entire time. But how could he not mope when he was surrounded by a bunch of Elves, far far away from the only thing he had ever wanted. The Elves seemed to have cottoned onto that as well – either that or Kíli hadn’t kept his big mouth shut. They’d swanned around him with painfully smug, knowing smirks, asking how the _fair lady of Dale_ was faring and whether or not she would consider marrying someone from the Woodland Realm. He’d been tempted to knock the smirks off of their faces but hadn’t fancied reacquainting himself with Thranduil’s prison cells. “The Elves were… Elfy.”

“Elfy?” Sigrid threw over her shoulder as she disappeared into the kitchen, returning a moment later with a bottle of… something. Looked like whiskey but lighter. She didn’t bring any glasses with her. Amused, he watched her unscrewed the top and take a swig from the bottle. She coughed a little, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and held the bottle out to him. “Hilda got me this. Don’t actually know what it is but it’s got quite a kick.”

Fíli followed suit; he took the bottle from her and threw it back without a second thought. The moment the amber liquid hit the back of his throat, he was coughing. Whatever it was burned its way down his throat and left his chest uncomfortably warm. Eyes watering a little, he pushed the bottle back into Sigrid’s hands.

“ _Quite_ a kick?” He spluttered, his voice rough. “Mahal’s beard. Tastes like Smaug’s piss.”

Sigrid’s snorted, taking another sip. “Charming.”

Not one to back down from a challenge, unspoken or not, Fíli snatched the bottle back the moment she started to lower it from her lips. Sigrid’s eyes were bright, watching him intently as he grimaced before taking another sip of the wretched drink. It didn’t burn as much the second time but it still had, as she said, _quite a kick._

“You drink this?” He asked in disbelief, when he had finished coughing up his lungs.

Sigrid merely shrugged. “It was a gift. Hilda’s way of congratulating me now that I’m allowed to drink again.”

“Why’s that? I thought that was only when you’re – you know.” He said, gesturing vaguely at her stomach.

“Brand’s onto food – so he doesn’t –” Sigrid stopped abruptly, shaking her head. He thought he spied a faint flush on her cheeks. “I’m not discussing this with you.”

Fíli smirked, enjoying her embarrassment far too much, and took another hit from the bottle.

“Maybe you should take it easy,” Sigrid laughed. “You’re looking a little wobbly.”

“I’m fine.” He grumbled but found himself leaning against the back of the couch for support. Sigrid just smiled and moved to lean next to him, bumping her shoulder into his. She took the bottle back and held it up to her face, inspecting its contents. There were flakes in it, he realised when he looked closely as well. Tiny flakes that glimmered and caught the light. He had to snort. “Is that _gold?”_

“You tell me. You’re the expert.”

He pulled a face at that. “Just ‘cause I’m a Dwarf doesn’t mean I can sniff out gold like… like a… Besides – I don’t even like gold that much.”

“Oh? And what do you like?” She was teasing – she likely didn’t believe him. He was a Dwarf after all. What Dwarf didn’t worship and covet gold? He looked across at her, ignoring the way the edges of his vision blurred, and met her gaze. Her eyes – the grey brighter than usual, bringing out the flecks of blue – trapped him, made it impossible for him to look anywhere else.

“Silver. I like… I like silver the best.” The words slipped from his lips, unbidden. It was his turn to blush. He ducked his head and could only hope that she wouldn’t notice.

Sigrid smiled faintly, a touch confused. “I never would have guessed. You always wear gold.”

She touched his hair – touched the gold beads in his hair – and he grew very still. She was looking at him very seriously, studying the runes etched into the beads. In any other circumstance he would have laughed at the expression on her face. But as it was, it took all his willpower not to close his eyes and lean into her touch. Her fingers were gentle, carting carefully through his hair. She wasn’t a Dwarf, she didn’t know the connotations of what she was doing – but he could pretend. But all too soon she drew away, robbing him of her touch.

“I’m… I’m expected to.” He sighed, clearing his throat. “Heir and all that.”

“Right.” She laughed quietly, eyes flickering back to his hair. “I forget sometimes. Y’know, that you’ll be a king someday.”

“And you’ll be a queen.” He drawled and her smile dimmed. He cursed under his breath, releasing his mistake. “Sigrid –”

She took a swig of the bottle instead of answering.  

Between the two of them, they’d drank half the bottle before Sigrid spoke again. The silence between them wasn’t awkward, it rarely was, though he couldn’t help but sneak glances at her every now and again, fearful that his carelessness had upset her. Her face remained impassive, her eyes far away. Somehow, along the way, they’d ended up on the floor, leaning against the back of the settee. Their shoulders were pressed together, their legs stretched out in front of them. At some point, noticing that, he had chuckled to himself. Her legs were so much longer than his. He had never really noticed before.

“So –” Sigrid turned to him abruptly, after a long stretch of silence. “Your trip. How was it?”

“Boring.” He answered, his voice thick with drink. “I missed you. And – everyone. Elves – they aren’t my cup of tea.”

“No? I’ve always thought they were quite charming.” Sigrid said, slurring a little. “A little emotionally constipated, sure – but charming.”

He snorted. “Of course _you’d_ say that _._ ”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She protested, elbowing him in the side. He was wearing armour under his tunic so he didn’t feel it, but he yelped anyway.

“Women. You always go for that – that poncey Elf look. With their stupid hair and cheekbones and smooth faces –”

“Sounds like you’re the one who goes for that, not me.” Sigrid cut in, rolling her eyes.

“Ha!”

Her eyes narrowed, but her smile remained teasing. “So what do you go for then, if not Elves?”

“Who wants to know?” He quipped and Sigrid just smiled at him, her thoughts – her motivations – ever a mystery to him. He was tempted to tell her _exactly_ what his type was. It wouldn’t be difficult for him to paint a picture – tall and slender, with lovely long legs, brown hair that shone gold in the light, _freckles,_ rosy lips that were made to smile and be kissed, and bright grey eyes that could be soft like silver or dark like a thundercloud promising a storm. Fíli was no artist, he had never had an eye for quality like most Dwarves, but he knew a thing of beauty when he saw it.

“Dain says you’re to be married soon.”

He blinked, caught off-guard by the sudden change in topic. “I am?”

“Mm. Apparently.”

There was something in her tone. Something that caught his attention. An off-note that hadn’t been there before. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was. It wasn’t irritation – he knew very well what she sounded like when she was cross with him – but it was something close. He looked across at her, blinking slowly to focus his eyes, and frowned. She was looking far too interested in a loose thread on the sleeve of her cardigan.

He leaned in close, emboldened by drink, and canted his head to meet her eye.

“Does that displease you?”

“No. ‘Course not.” Sigrid looked away, her words clipped. It only made his smirk spread. Her eyes flickered back to him and narrowed. “What?”

“I think it does.” It was a dangerous thought, but he couldn’t shake it. He found that he liked the thought of her being displeased with him about marrying. He’d been more than a little _displeased_ himself when he’d found out about her and Edric, after all.

“Marriage is serious, Fíli.” Sigrid sighed, her gaze falling to her lap. He felt his smile falter and he leaned back, giving her space. “Don’t make the same mistake I did.”

“I won’t.” He said gently, all traces of teasing gone. “Was it really so terrible? Being married to Edric?”

“It wasn’t terrible.” Sigrid said with a great deal of reluctance and took a long swig from the bottle. She set the bottle down on the ground beside them with a heavy sigh, staring ahead with a distant look in her eyes. “Just… lonely.”

Fíli frowned, looking at her closely. “Are… are you lonely now?”

Sigrid glanced across and for a long moment, she simply stared at him. Her expression was difficult to read.

“Sometimes,” she eventually admitted with a rueful twist of her lips. “Are you?”

Fíli smiled faintly, without humour. “Sometimes.”

He had never truly stopped himself to ask that question but he knew it was true. Things were different to the way they had always been. His Uncle was a King, his mother was in Ered Luin, the Company was scattered around Erebor, and Kíli had Tauriel. He had his brother – would always have his brother – but there were times when Kíli wasn’t enough. When he wanted things his brother couldn’t give him. Things he often found himself dreaming about as of late – like being a father, a _husband._

Sigrid shifted, turning so that she was facing him, and leaned her head against the back of the settee. Her hair was falling in her face, hiding her flushed cheeks. Seemingly reading his thoughts, she reached up to tuck it behind one ear. The simple action made him smile.

He wasn’t sure what madness possessed him – what it was about her words or the way that she was looking at him that made him finally give in to the desire he had been denying himself for months. All he knew was that he found himself leaning across the space between them again and pressing his lips to hers.

Sigrid startled slightly but made no move to pull away. Her lips were soft, parted beneath his in surprise. He kissed her gently, only a light brush of lips, like he had almost done the day Brand was born. She made a soft sound in her throat before she was suddenly kissing him back, her lips pressed tight against his. He could taste the alcohol on her lips. She moved closer, bracing one hand on his thigh while the other lifted to cup his jaw. Her fingers brushed through the short hairs of his beard, sending shivers through him.

She made that soft sound again against his lips when his hands found her waist and Mahal save him – for all his resolve, he couldn’t resist deepening the kiss and giving in after months of torment.

The bottle was knocked over when he pulled her onto his lap, her legs settling either side of his hips. His hands were in her hair, fingers dragging through her soft brown curls while he kissed her with abandon, the way he’d imagined for months. If his Uncle saw him now, he’d have his beard. But Sigrid wasn’t a Dwarf – she didn’t know – it wasn’t the same –

Their lips broke apart but he didn’t go far. He wasn’t sure he would ever be able to stop himself from kissing her now that he had started.

His lips travelled across her cheek and her jaw, leaving a trail of kisses down her throat. One of his hands slipped out of her hair, following the curve of her back to settle on her waist. Her hands were on his chest, sliding up to his shoulders. Sigrid’s hands were always cold but in that moment they _burned._ He could feel the heat of her through his clothes and his armour, could feel the goosebumps her fingers left in her wake.

She tipped her head back and made that same soft sound that was steadily starting to drive him mad. He groaned low in his throat and kissed her neck harder than he meant to. It would leave a mark. The thought of it – and the way that Sigrid clutched desperately at his shoulders, arching against him – didn’t help his self-control.

Her hips rocked against his. Unconscious or not, it startled him into awareness.

They broke apart, breathless.

He had thought about this moment often, agonised over what he would say and how she would react. There was an endless list of things he had planned on telling her in such a moment, such as how beautiful she was, or how highly he valued their friendship, or just how much he loved her, but instead the words which tumbled from his lips were perhaps the last he had intended to say in that moment –

“Marry me.”

Sigrid stared at him, blinking twice before she answered. “What?”

“Marry me.” Fíli said because once the words were out, there was no point in trying to take them back.

Sigrid laughed once, her expression somehow both startled and bemused. It stung but he did his best not to let it show. When he didn’t answer – when he didn’t take the words back - she looked at him suspiciously, eyes narrowed and her eyebrows drawing together, like she was trying to work out whether he was joking or not. She leaned back, still sat in his lap, and her hands slipped from his shoulders.

“Oh, you’re a lot drunken than I thought. To be sprouting such nonsense -”

“It’s not nonsense. And I’m not drunk.” He protested, but the very apparent slur to his words took away from his argument a tad. Sigrid blinked, one eyebrow lifting. Her expression said it all. The rejection stung but he pressed on, needing to say what he’d kept locked up inside himself for so long. He reached out with a heavy sigh, talking hold of both her hands. He rubbed his thumb over where her wedding ring had once sat, remembering just how much of a kick in the gut it had been to see it there for the first time. He would see his own ring on her finger, forged with love and by his own hands, if he had his way. “I mean it, Sigrid. Marrying me - it makes sense.”

“How so?” She asked, her eyes squinting a little, like she still wasn’t sure if he was joking or not. She was humouring him; she thought he was drunk and talking out of his arse, but the words needed to be said. He’d picked a terrible time – they were both deep in their cups and she was still sat _very distractingly_ in his lap, but he had to say it. He needed her to understand.

“You wouldn’t be marrying a stranger like Edric. You know me – you know you don’t have to worry whether or not I’m after your title -”

“I know that.” She cut in gently, looking lost. Her eyes were glassy and she kept blinking like she was having trouble concentrating. The chances that she’d remember this conversation in the morning seemed slim. “But – well, we talked about this. Or is… is that what you’re worried about? That you’ll be like me – marry a stranger you don’t trust?”

“Yes, but that’s not why -”

“Oh,” Sigrid murmured, leaning back with a sigh that sounded a lot like relief. “I see. I understand.”

It was his turn to look at her dubiously. “You do?”

“’Course.” She said and squeezed his hands comfortingly before she shifted off of his lap. She settled back against the settee clumsily, nearly slumping over. “You don’t want to be like me. Stuck with an Edric for the rest of your life. I get it - goodness knows I would’ve rather married someone I trusted than the one I did.”

Again, he was reminded of Edric. The man was long in the ground but still the feeling of jealousy lingered, refusing to leave even after all this time. If he had only realised his feelings sooner, that man may never have come into Sigrid’s life. But then… then Brand never would have been born.

“Sigrid,” Fíli sighed. “ _Amrâlimê,_ no. It – it wouldn’t be like that.”

She tilted her head to one side, giving him an odd look. “What would it be like then?”

It was terrifying, how quickly, and how easily, he could imagine it. He saw himself, free of his title, living with her in a cottage somewhere, watching their children play in sundrenched fields. A simple life. He would not be burdened with responsibilities he did not want, he wouldn’t have to worry after the state of a kingdom, no - his sole purpose in life would be to make her smile.

It was a life he longed for, yet it was not, he feared, a life she would want.

Sigrid would never let her father or her people down as Fili intended to do. She would be the ruler of Dale someday; she would not give that up for a simple life, not even if she wished it. That beautiful, sunlit dream dissolved before his very eyes, leaving him cold and feeling very much sober as he sat beside her on the cold, hard floor of the dimly lit living room.

“I don’t know.” He admitted at last, his heart a heavy, tormented thing. “I thought I did…”

“You don’t want to marry me, Fíli, I’d be a terrible wife.” Sigrid smiled weakly, trying to make light of the situation. He forced himself to look at her, to not let the agony he felt on the inside show. “I wasn’t very good at it the first time. Besides,” she continued, laughing breathlessly. “Could you really imagine _me_ as a bloody Princess of Erebor?”

There was an old story, one his father had liked to tell them when he and his brother were very little. His mother hadn’t like the story, hadn’t liked him telling it to them. She preferred ones which had a happy ending.

In the story, there was a smith who was committed to his craft. His forge was all he knew. Then one day, he met a young Dwarrowdam who asked him to make her an axe. She came to his forge every day, asking how her axe was coming along. Every day, the smith was annoyed. He didn’t like to be distracted from his work. Every day, he asked the young Dwarrowdam to leave, but every day she would come back. Until one day, she didn’t. The smith waited for her, at first relieved that she had decided to stop bothering him, but when she didn’t come the next day, he was disappointed. And when at long last the axe was completed, and the Dwarrowdam never returned, the smith realised why it was he had taken so long to finish the weapon. What usually took him days, took him months. But he realised it too late.

His father had always said – _the sad truth is, we never truly value something ‘til it’s gone._

Fili didn’t want to be like the Dwarf in the story.

Maybe it was the drink – maybe it was some other madness – but suddenly, there was one more thing he needed to know -

“Do you think you could ever love me?” He asked, the words slipping from his tongue before he could even think to stop them. If her answer was yes, he would never stop trying. He would do anything – be anyone – to make her happy. And if her answer was no, he would walk away. As much as it pained him, as much as it killed him, he would walk away from her and never broach the subject again. He would be her friend, if she still wished it, and nothing more.

“I… I…” Sigrid leaned back, looking at him with panic flitting across her features. “I do. You know I do.”

“As more than a friend.” He pressed.

Sigrid turned away from him and ran her fingers through her hair. He thought he saw them tremble.

“I don’t know where this is coming from.” She murmured, refusing to look at him. His curled his fingers into his palms to keep from reaching for her. “I don’t understand. You’ve never said… Never once…”

“I know.” He shrugged lamely. “I s’pose I just wanted to… check?”

“But you – you are my friend. My _dearest friend_.” Sigrid began slowly, continuing as if she hadn’t heard him. She turned slowly, wringing her hands. Her eyes searched his face, her expression thoughtful. “You have been there for me when no one else has. You helped put me back together. And if… if I can love _anyone_ like that, it’s you.”

It took him a few seconds to remember how to breathe.

“Oh,” he laughed a little breathlessly. “Well, that’s good to know.”

In the morning, he wouldn’t remember their conversation.

But Sigrid would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long wait! i should be updating this more regularly now that my other story forget-me-not is finished. 
> 
> i haven't 100% decided on whether or not i'm going to change the rating. i'm not really sure where the line between mature and explicit is, it's not really clear. most of you seemed in favour of something leaning more on the smuttier side, so we'll just have to see, haha. 
> 
> thanks for reading, lovelies! <3


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